


The Alternate Handler

by 16woodsequ



Series: Alternative Timeline [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Alternate Universe, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Gen, Handler Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra did a number on Bucky, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, The Avengers Are Good Bros, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, time heist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:50:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 217,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22185988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/16woodsequ/pseuds/16woodsequ
Summary: The Asset wakes up from cryofreeze to find that Hydra has a new handler for him. Little does he know that Handler-Rogers has an agenda of his own.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Avengers Team, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
Series: Alternative Timeline [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1581769
Comments: 988
Kudos: 504





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story is a sequel to "Alternatively" I would suggest you read it first.
> 
> If you haven't here's what you need to know to understand this first chapter: 2012 Steve and Tony from the alternate Endgame timeline discover Hydra is a thing (thanks to 2023 Steve and Tony) and Steve goes undercover inside Hydra to try to root them out. Hydra decides to make Steve Bucky's handler.
> 
> I will be updating this fic weekly for as long as I can, I have about 12 chapters written but this fic will probably be at least 20 chapters. (Chapter 14 starts to cover stuff not covered in "Alternatively".)

The Asset blinks awake and coughs, the strands of his hair hanging wet and limp by his face as he bends over, his body shivering and trembling as he thaws out from cryofreeze. Once he’s awake and warm enough to start recognising his surroundings, he can see Agent Rumlow standing in front of him, his hand on his gun and a bored expression on his face.

“Alright, let’s go,” he orders sharply, turning to head out of the cryo-room, his shoulders straight and tense as he walks.

The Asset steps jerkily off his cryo-platform, trying to supress his shivers as he complies. In front of him, Rumlow marches swiftly, leading the way down the hall towards a room that he instinctively labels ‘the Maintenance Room’.

He does his best to follow closely as they walk, but the effects of his most recent cryofreeze makes it difficult to keep from stumbling, and the wet strands of his hair send shivers running down his spine. Rumlow stops briefly at the door leading to the Vault, turning as if to make sure he’s following properly and he ducks his head, hoping the submissive gesture will offset any impatience for his post-cryofreeze behavior.

Thankfully, Rumlow’s scowl is no worse than usual, and he steps aside to allow him to enter the Vault. He steps inside and automatically scans the agents in black tactical gear that line the walls, for some reason, he feels that there are more than usual.

Thinking about the number of agents in the room isn’t his job though, so he discards the thought almost immediately as he moves to stand at attention behind Agent Rumlow, his eyes fixed distantly on the wall behind his recalibration chair.

Even with his eyes focused directly in front of him, he is still aware of the two other significant people standing in the room. One of them is Handler-Pierce, standing calmly near the center of the room in his usual grey suit. The other man standing beside him is dressed in some kind of blue uniform with a white star in the middle. The Asset can’t begin to guess why he’s here, but the man’s eyes widen and he seems to give a start of surprise as he enters.

“Bucky?” he sputters, his voice tight with shock.

The man is not a handler, agent, or technician, so the Asset mentally shuffles him down in his priority list, keeping his eyes fixed in front of him while he waits for his next orders.

“Asset,” Handler-Pierce’s voice cuts in, catching his attention immediately. “Go sit.”

Orders received, the Asset marches automatically towards the recalibration chair and settles down into it, his gaze now fixed blankly on a new wall as he waits to find out what kind of mission he will receive.

Handler-Pierce doesn’t address him right away though, turning instead to talk to the man in blue. Since no immediate mission seems to be forthcoming, the Asset allows himself to zone out slightly, letting the words from their conversation wash over him without really registering them.

If he were on a mission, he would have been careful to pay attention to every word spoken, but right now it isn’t his place to listen, and zoning out allows him a chance to mull over the strange word that the man in blue had spoken.

 _What is Bucky?_ a distant part of him wonders. The word seems… something. Something about that word…

The man in blue’s voice rises in anger, and even though he’s not a handler or an agent, the Asset finds himself mentally tuning in to him. He’s careful to keep his eyes fixed in front of him of course, but something about that man…

The man turns to look at him and seems to stumble forward half a step, his face pale. Around him the room freezes, tension piling up as the agents that line the walls subtly clutch their guns closer to themselves. The man stills as well, and out of the corner of his eye the Asset can see him weighing his options, his eyes staring at him, a storm of emotions swirling around inside.

After a moment, the man carefully relaxes before returning to his conversation with Handler-Pierce. (And the Asset realises his tongue is pressing almost painfully into the roof of his mouth, only beginning to relax as the tension in the room eases off.) 

Something is… something about that man…

Almost against his will, he finds his eyes drifting towards the man in blue. Their gaze meets for a half-second and he feels his heartbeat skyrocket as he darts his eyes away. Thankfully, no one accuses him of malfunctioning and soon he learns why the man in blue is so important.

Handler-Pierce turns towards him and plants himself directly in front of him. “Asset,” he says shortly. “Prepare for change in protocol.”

He focuses immediately and nods his head. “Confirmed,” he replies.

Handler-Pierce gestures for the man in blue and he marches over stiffly. “Rogers, will now be designated as your Head-Handler,” Pierce rattles off and the Asset nods, mentally reshuffling the man in blue— Handler-Rogers’ priority. “Confirm changes,” Pierce orders, sticking his hands in his pockets.

“Confirmed,” The Asset replies immediately, his eyes flickering ever so slightly to his new handler. Pierce turns to discuss various aspects of his handling with his new Head-Handler, and the Asset has the faintest passing thought that maybe, he’s been handled by this man before.

There’s something about him…

The next time he’s woken up from cryofreeze, Handler-Rogers is waiting for him in the Vault. He’s not wearing the blue uniform today. Instead he’s wearing some sort of checkered shirt over a white undershirt and a pair of tan coloured pants. The Asset shouldn’t care about what his handler’s wears, but the outfit sticks in his mind anyways. It feels… weird to see someone dressed in something other than a suit or uniform.

 _He’s dressed like a civilian_ , he realises as he takes a seat in his chair. _Like something a target would wear._ Of course, he’s not a target (his mind rebels at even the _thought_ ) but it’s been a very long time since he’s been around anyone Important wearing those kinds of clothes.

Everyone else in the room is dressed normally, the agents in black and the technicians in their white coats, most of them nameless and unimportant. Pierce isn’t here today, but his importance is lessened slightly, now that Handler-Rogers is his new handler, so he brushes the observation away almost as soon as it appears.

Throughout the day Agent Rumlow and some of the technicians start walking his new handler through his various protocols and commands. And as the Asset waits patiently and demonstrates certain commands when necessary, he finds himself, more often than not, watching Handler-Rogers out of the corner of his eye.

There’s something about him… something in the way he holds himself… It’s confusing. He smiles amiably and makes a show of looking relaxed around the other agents, but somehow, in the slant of an eyebrow, the set of his shoulders, the Asset can see a storm brewing.

It’s not really any of his business, but it’s… interesting.

He does his best to be on his best behavior for his new handler. He probably won’t be sent on any missions until his training with Handler-Rogers is finished (or an emergency comes up, whichever comes first), and he wants to make sure he shows his handler how good of an asset he can be.

He always seems to be messing up though, being too slow or getting in the way, and the other agents are careful to chastise him for it. A part of him curls up in despair every time it happens in front of his new handler. His handler is _never_ going to think he’s a good asset if this keeps up.

And for some reason that is important.

Maybe it’s because Handler-Rogers is his _Head-_ Handler but he finds he really _really_ … Not wants, (the Asset cannot want), but… the idea of making his handler proud is, is good.

His efforts are tested shortly after he starts training with his new handler. Handler-Rogers is waiting for him in the Maintenance Room again and he’s doing his best to keep up with the agent who had gotten him up from cryofreeze. It’s difficult, because he’s still shivering from the cold and the post-cryo waves of nausea make it hard to walk in a straight line. He does his best but he can feel the agent growing more impatient by the minute.

“Move it!” The man hisses as he waits at the entrance to the Maintenance Room. The annoyance in his voice and the rapid tapping of his foot prompts the Asset to move faster, but his balance is still shaky, and he stumbles instead.

He just barely manages to catch sight of his handler before his head whips to the side and a spark of pain travels up his cheek, the sound of a slap sharp in the quiet room. The world spins and he blinks dizzily, trying to keep his balance as he recovers. Falling over now would only invite more punishment and his handler has already seen enough—

His heart lurches when he manages to look up and he sees his handler looming over the agent, the man’s hand clasped tightly in his own and a look of fire in his eyes.

“Hit him again,” he grinds out, his voice dark and foreboding. “And I will break every bone in your hand.” The Asset keeps himself as still as possible, barely even breathing as he watches the pulse in the agent’s throat jump jerkily. “Do I make myself _clear_ ,” his handler snaps, and the agent’s head jerks into a frantic nod.

“Y-yes sir,” he stutters out, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head in fear.

“Good,” his handler spits, and the Asset drops his eyes as his handler takes a step back and glares around the room. He doesn’t quite… understand exactly why his handler is angry, but he seems to be mad at the _agents_ , rather than at him.

“If I am to be the Asset’s handler,” Handler-Rogers bites out, his back ramrod straight. “Then he will be handled _as I see fit._ ” His chin juts out stubbornly and for some reason something about that is… familiar. “Any of you have a problem with him, you come to _me_ first.”

The Asset’s eyes snap up for a second before he remembers himself and looks down, a timid ‘Yes sir’ echoing from the agents around him as he tries to comprehend what he’s just heard. His handler… wants to regulate his punishments himself? Does… does that mean the other agents aren’t _allowed_ to punish him anymore?

No. That doesn’t make sense, that wouldn’t be…

“Asset, to me,” his handler orders sharply, breaking into his train of thought and spinning on his heel to march stiffly out of the room.

He hurries to comply and feels his heart pounding a little heavier than usual in his chest. His handler is still angry, and he _had_ said that he wanted to handle his punishment _himself_ … does that mean he’s going deal out his own punishment now?

He eyes the hard lines of his handler’s shoulders apprehensively and tries to keep pace with him as they march down the hall, stopping to stand perfectly at attention once they enter the training room. To his surprise, his handler doesn’t immediately list off some kind of punishment or discipline upon arriving, instead rolling his shoulders and breathing out before taking up a fighting stance in the middle of the room.

“Sparring positions,” he says, his voice more of a dull knife, rather than the sword it had been. “No lethal or permanent damage.” Relief floods through the Asset and he readies himself immediately, intent on showing his handler just how _good_ he can be.

“Confirmed,” he says, before eyeing up his opponent.

It… isn’t until _after_ he throws the first punch that he realises he’d been so intent on showing his skills that he hadn’t thought to consider _whether or not_ his handler is a match for him. His stomach drops in horror and he seems to watch his hand move toward his handler’s face in slow motion. If he _punches his handler_ things probably aren’t going to look good for him.

To his surprise and ultimate relief, his handler blocks the punch and immediately retaliates, his face tight with concentration. He relaxes at that and settles into the motions, impressed to find that… actually… his handler is really good. He blinks in surprise as they step back from their first bout and narrows his eyes, recalculating.

A part of him thinks that maybe, his handler might _actually_ be able to keep up with him and a bubble of excitement swells up in him at the thought. That hasn’t happened for a long time—

— _dusty ground, brown jacket, a flurry of fists and blond hair—_

The Asset scowls as he pushes away whatever that had been. He _can’t_ malfunction now. He needs to perform well for his handler. He throws another punch, thankful that his momentary slip doesn’t seem to have been noticed as they continue sparring. A small tiny part of him curls up internally as they continue to exchange blows, pleased that he has a handler who can keep up with him.

He pauses instantly though, once his handler eventually raises his hand, signalling the end of their fight. They’re both breathing hard and for a moment, he almost wishes they could keep going.

“Well done,” his handler says, the praise sending a bolt of surprise shooting down his spine. That… that… The Asset very carefully does not narrow his eyes in confusion. His handler had _praised_ him.

The next second, an agent is sticking her head through the doorway and his handler’s focus is elsewhere. “Secretary Pierce wants to see you in the Maintenance Room,” she informs them, and the Asset feels a small kernel of dread drop into his stomach.

He doubts that Pierce is here for a mission.

Still, he complies as his handler leads him back down the hall, mentally shifting back a little as they walk towards the Maintenance Room. Pierce is waiting for them when they arrive, along with Rumlow and several technicians, their white coats making it clear what is about to come.

Pierce nods towards the chair, confirming the Asset’s hunch, before sticking his hands in his pockets. “We felt it time for you to learn how to prep the Asset for a mission,” he says to his handler, and the Asset can feel himself rapidly checking out of the conversation.

“Of course,” his handler replies stiffly, and a distant part of the Asset notices how tense he’s gotten again. “Asset, go sit,” he says, turning to him, the order sharp against the blurry edges the world is quickly becoming.

The Asset complies dully, walking robotically towards the chair and sitting down mechanically. Around him, the technicians start darting around and the chair clamps down on him. A technician offers him his mouth guard and he opens for it automatically, the rubber stiff and hard against his tongue.

The technicians prep for the procedure and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop his body’s reaction to the approaching maintenance. His heartrate doubles and his breathing speeds up, and, for a split second, the world sharpens as his eyes lock onto his handler. But the next second the chair is whirling around him and the headpieces of the machine spin around to position themselves over his face.

His breath catches and the half-second before the machine starts seems to stretch for an eternity before a scream rips out of him and electricity pours into his brain.

The pain is white-hot and blinding, shocks sparking through his brain like fire until it’s impossible to feel anything else. Thought is impossible in the face of such an assault and time is senseless here, there’s nothing else, there’s never _been_ anything else—

He wakes up and the familiar sound of his trigger words greet him, digging into his brain and opening doors to his Winter Soldier training and protocols. Electric aftershocks still run through his body, causing him to twitch and gasp, but it doesn’t matter because—

“Soldat?”

He looks up. His handler is in front of him.

“Ready to comply.”

oOo

The Asset follows his handler carefully down the hall, standing perfectly at attention once they reach the door of his cell. His handler drags the door open and gestures for him to enter. “Wait here until further orders,” he says, his eyes resting on him before scanning the room.

Orders received, the Asset silently enters the small room and stands attentively in front of the cot, his hands clasped behind his back.

For some reason, his handler seems to hesitate at the doorway, his jaw flexing as he gives him a look. “Sleep—” his lips press together, and his eyes dart around before he nods towards the bed. “Sleep a minimum of three hours a night,” he orders, and the Asset very carefully does not blink in surprise at the unusual command.

“Confirmed,” he replies, despite his confusion, because that’s his job.

Still, his handler seems to hesitate. “Sleep more if you want to,” he says finally. “I’ll be back in a few days.” He steps away then, seemingly satisfied, backing out of the room and closing the door behind him with a definite thud.

The Asset waits until Handler-Rogers’ footsteps have faded before he relaxes out of his tense stance, turning over the odd set of orders in his head.

Usually his handlers don’t bother with his sleep, only ensuring that he gets enough so as to not compromise a mission and, besides that, he’s found that it’s better to be found alert rather than asleep when being fetched by an impatient agent, so his sleep schedule is generally irregular.

But still, this handler wants three hours of sleep a night. He eyes the yellowing tile that lines the walls of his cell and privately hopes that his handler will not become angry, should he find it difficult to comply with such a strange order.

He would try of course, but something instinctively tells him that he isn’t used to regulated sleeping hours.

 _He even gave me permission to sleep more,_ a quiet part of his brain whispers and he pushes it away. His handler had said, ‘sleep more if you _want_ ’. The Asset can not want, so the offer is irrelevant. _Still,_ the same corner of his brain tries to reason. _He probably won’t punish me if I_ happen _to sleep more_ _than three hours, right?_

 _Possibly_ , he concedes, his mouth twisting. But on the other hand, his handler could be using the loose phrasing to test him, to see whether or not he would comply accurately and not fall prey to… temptation.

Until he knows what kind of handler Handler-Rogers is, it would probably be best not to risk anything yet. The Asset’s lips press together at the thought and he glances down at his cot, mentally calculating how long between now and his next feeding time. He isn’t ready to use up his three hours of sleep just yet, and he doesn’t dare trying to sleep more than that. There isn’t much to do in his cell though, besides wait for his handler or another agent.

But that’s okay. He is good at waiting. 

oOo

The next person to open his cell is not his handler, but Agent Rumlow, his eyes bored and his hand on his gun as he gestures for the Asset to follow him down to the Provisions room. Inside, the Asset waits patiently while Agent Rumlow goes over to the counter that lines one side of the wall. A small sink is inlaid and Agent Rumlow pulls out a glass and a bag of powder from one of the cupboards before turning on the tap and beginning to mix the Asset’s evening rations.

A glass of beige liquid is shoved at him and he drinks quickly, knowing some of the agents get impatient with this aspect of working with the Winter Soldier. Once he’s finished, Agent Rumlow takes the glass from him and gestures sharply towards the doorway at the back of the room.

“Make it quick,” he says as he sets the glass in the sink and taps his fingers restlessly against his gun.

The Asset complies, walking purposefully towards the doorway. Inside, a steel toilet sits on one side of the room, and a showerhead and drain on the other.

There’s no door to separate the two rooms so he can hear Agent Rumlow’s muted conversation with a passing agent as he walks towards the toilet.

“Babysitting the Asset, I see,” the agent says and Agent Rumlow scoffs.

“Yeah. Not exactly what I imagined when I was told I’d be working with the Winter Soldier.”

“Just be glad he can wipe himself,” the agent replies, a sneer evident in his voice.

Agent Rumlow laughs nastily and the agent sniggers as well before excusing himself back to wherever he’s supposed to be.

The Asset thinks nothing of their words because that isn’t his _job,_ and once he’s finished with the toilet, he walks back to stand at attention in front of Agent Rumlow, finding the man leaning lazily against the counter, a look of contempt on his face. With a sigh, he pushes himself up and waves to follow as he heads to the door.

“I bet _Rogers_ would follow you around with a roll of toilet paper if he thought you needed it,” he jeers at him as they reach his cell, a less than friendly smile on his face. The Asset doesn’t reply, only stepping silently into his cell, and Agent Rumlow scoffs again before dragging the door closed behind him.

Inside his cell, he contemplates Agent Rumlow’s words. From his tone of voice, he had been insulting his current handler, and while that shouldn’t really matter to him, the Asset still finds himself… distracted, by Agent Rumlow’s comments.

oOo

The next time his handler comes, they get into a van and Agent Rollins drives them outside of the city so that the Asset can demonstrate his rifle skills. After dropping them off, Agent Rollins spends most of the exercise in the car, content to spend the time on his phone while Handler-Rogers evaluates his skills.

As they walk out further into the secluded field, the Asset can’t help noticing how his handler’s shoulders seem to lose some of their tension, the further away from the van they get.

The sky is overcast as they walk towards the targets that stretch out at various distances in front of them. The grass is brittle under their feet as they draw to a stop beside a collection of firearms spread out on a tarp and he waits patiently as his handler picks up a M2010 Enhanced Sniper Rifle and hands it to him.

“Here, show me what you can do with this one, Buc—” His handler’s face twists abruptly, and he cuts himself off, his lips pressing together as his hands tighten on the proffered gun.

The Asset stands uncertainly for a moment as his handler’s face goes blank and he swallows heavily, holding out the gun. “Can you hit the far targets over there?” he asks a little roughly.

He can, and the strange incident is soon forgotten as the Asset cycles through the different available weapons. He finds it’s… nice, in a way, to be able to be outside without a mission, even if the day is a little cold.

Plus, his handler doesn’t hover over him as he works, eyes sharp and searching for any form of mistake. He’s willing to be impressed, instead of automatically expecting failure (which feels slightly foreign) and, he doesn’t seem likely to explode should failure actually occur. (One of the Asset’s shots lands a little off from the center of the target, and his handler doesn’t even comment.)

Strangely, the lack of a negative response prompts the Asset to try to work harder, to _really_ show his handler what he can do. Without the threat of retribution, he finds he can relax a little because he doesn’t have to constantly analyse every micro-expression his handler makes.

That, and the wind in his hair, the sun pushing away the chill of the day… It’s liberating.

Afterwards, the drive back to the Vault almost feels… depressing, and he’s not sure why.

oOo

He’s noticed that his handler’s face changes around the other Hydra agents.

Such as now, for example, while the technicians scramble around him to prep him for cryofreeze. His handler’s face is closed off and hard, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Even when he’s more animated, talking and smiling with the other agents, something about him feels… tense.

The Asset doesn’t blink as a technician steps closer to him and puts an IV into his right hand, his mind more preoccupied with his handler’s behaviour.

When they are alone, his handler is more relaxed, and he’s the most forgiving handler the Asset has ever had. But sometimes… sometimes there’s almost something… pained in his eyes, and he wonders how the other agents fail to see it.

The IV drips cold into his arm and soon he’s led to his cryochamber, the world fading out a little as he prepares to be frozen again.

A technician goes over the process with his handler and he looks… something about how he looks…

The capsule closes and a sudden aching, biting cold digs into his bones until he can feel nothing at all, and the world fades out the rest of the way. 

oOo

Time doesn’t really matter to the Asset. In a way, time doesn’t really touch him. He forgets its passage or is frozen through it often enough that every time he wakes up, its like being reborn, over and over again. Still, no matter how out of touch with time he is, he can still recognise from the progress in his training that he will probably be sent on a mission with his new handler soon.

With this in mind, he isn’t surprised when, on his most recent awakening, his handler doesn’t order him into another round of training, instead sending him straight into his cell with orders to ‘wait for further instructions’.

The bulb in the ceiling of his cell buzzes continually with a mind-numbing dullness and the Asset has already counted the tiles that line the walls a dozen times.

He can wait. He’s _good_ at waiting. He’s pretty sure that one time his cryochamber hadn’t been functioning so his handler at the time had ordered him to stand by the wall and wait for further orders, and he’d waited for a full two days, almost completely immobile while he waited to be put away again.

The Asset is a tool. He knows this, and he will wait for how ever long it takes for his handler to return, because that’s his _job._

(He is glad however, that his handler had once again given him permission to sleep while he is away. Sometimes… sometimes he even just lays down in his cot, not sleeping, but not standing at attention either, his ear strained continuously for the footsteps of any approaching agents.)

It’s a round and a half of rations later when his handler returns. His mouth tight and his shoulders tense as he changes and prepares for their first mission. There’s… something about the set of his shoulders that makes the Asset want to reassure him that he will perform well. He will make sure that this mission goes well. He won’t fail him.

His handler takes responsibility for suiting him up (and a very small part of the Asset relaxes a little, once he’s sure he won’t be roughly shoved into his uniform. Another, even smaller part of him thinks that this is probably the best handler he’s ever had.)

His handler’s lips press together as he hands over his mask and goggles, and he slips the mask on easily. He hangs onto the straps of the goggles with one hand though, not wanting to put them on until he gets outside. His heart hiccups a little as he does so, worried about angering anyone with his choice, but his handler doesn’t even seem to notice, instead reaching over to hand him the file for their target.

He’s been given files before, but often his handlers will just spout out his orders without ever giving him a chance to look over anything himself. He’s glad this handler is allowing him to read through it himself, because now he can be sure he has as much information as possible to insure a successful mission.

His eyes scan the information sheet for his target, an attached photo showing the profile of a Black man wearing an eyepatch. He stares at it for a moment, memorising his features before going on to read the rest of the file. 

**TARGET** : Nicholas J. Fury, Director of SHIELD

 **MISSION** : Track and eliminate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy Bucky's pov!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset receives some concerning orders.

The Asset is glad that he has his mask and goggles on in the van, since he’s pretty sure he’s watching his handler with a little too much interest.

He can’t help it. His handler looks about as stiff as a board, and an inexplicable part of him wants to lean over and reassure him that this mission will go fine, he will not fail him. He grits his teeth and keeps his spine locked straight, fighting away the urge. It would be inappropriate of him, to talk that way to his handler.

 _Especially,_ a part of his mind whispers. _In front of all these Hydra agents._

He ignores that thought, instead, reviewing the mission parameters in his head: Wait while the other Hydra agents confront the Target, and, under the direction of his handler, step in when necessary. He knows that Hydra would like to take down the Target without involving him if possible, but thinking back over his Target’s file and his history of special ops, he’s pretty sure that he will be needed by the end of this mission.

Agent Rollins reaches over to hand something to his handler and he finds himself following the agent’s movements almost suspiciously behind his goggles as the van pulls to a stop and they begin to disembark. He gets out and sticks close to his handler as the other agents dart away, intent on catching their target.

His handler’s face is stiff when he turns to him. “We wait here until further orders,” he says tightly and the Asset nods.

“Confirmed,” he replies, his voice muffled by his mask while, behind his goggles, his eyes scan the skyline for any threats as he settles himself to wait to be called in.

In front of him, his handler reaches up to place what he realises must be an earpiece in his ear, before he freezes, barely breathing as his eyes dart around them. For a second, the Asset wonders if there’s some sort of threat that he’s unaware of, and he tenses slightly as Handler-Rogers drops his arm and turns to him, a determined glint in his eyes.

Something about that look… the tight jaw, the defiant eyes, something about it triggers something inside him that he can’t quite… He grinds his teeth in frustration. Something about that look is _important._

“Asset,” his handler says firmly, his tone immediately activating a sense of authority. Without a thought, the Asset straightens, his mind ready to receive orders. “The mission parameters have changed,” his handler tells him, his shoulders stiff. “Target Nicholas Fury is not to be killed.”

Confusion sparks and thankfully his goggles hide his blink of surprise at the unexpected orders. The lines around his handler’s eyes are deep as he continues, his hands tight fists by his side. “New mission,” he says, and the Asset latches onto the familiar language. “Injure target Nicholas Fury enough to be presumed dead, repeat, do _not_ kill.”

The Asset’s eyes dart around behind his goggles as he takes in the new orders. They’re not… His teeth tug on the inside of his cheek. Something about these orders…

His handler raises his chin and the Asset focuses back on him. “Hydra must think that target Nicholas Fury is not a threat,” he says, and a shiver runs up the Asset’s spine. “Tell no one of these changes in parameters,” he finishes, and the Asset’s eyes widen.

Tell no one… His eyes dart around while at the same time, he remains completely still.

Something about these orders… something about them… they’re _wrong,_ he realises. They _go against_ Hydra’s orders. They’re… they’re… They’re… his orders.

He blinks and breathes in, realising he’d forgotten to do that. These are his orders. His orders from his _handler._ His handler is _important._ His programming screams because _he can’t disobey orders._ But he’s _not._ He’s _not._ These Are His Orders. His handler _gave_ him orders and…

And he wants to follow them.

His handler gave him orders, and it doesn’t _matter_ if they’re different from Hydra’s orders. They _are_ Hydra’s orders now.

They are his orders.

They are his orders now and he will follow them.

His stomach twists with nerves but he raises his chin and nods once to his handler. “Yes sir,” he says, the words slipping out automatically and he’s not… he’s not sure why… why _those_ words, but he knows, as soon as he says them, that they’re the _right_ ones.

His handler’s eyes widen, and he relaxes slightly. “Thank you, Buck,” he says softly and the word… that word lodges itself into the Asset’s brain. He’s not sure exactly what it means, but it’s _important_.

New orders given and received, his handler finally hands him his earpiece and they sit in silence as they listen to Hydra’s attempts at cornering the target.

 _“Initial assault failed,”_ Agent Rollins reports, sounding slightly out of breath. _“Target is in his vehicle heading northwest. We’ve blocked off Roosevelt Bridge.”_ The Asset pulls up his mental map of the city as he speaks, pinpointing their location on it for future reference. _“The only clear route is 17 th Ave,”_ Agent Rollins informs them. _“Go there.”_

His handler responds instantly and motions him towards the waiting van, jumping into the driver’s seat and throwing it into gear. “Quickest route to 17th avenue,” he orders as the Asset swings himself into the passenger seat, his mind already mentally calculating the fastest route to the Target as they drive.

“Turn here,” he says, and his handler spins the wheel of the car in response. The Asset’s body shifts right as they fly forward, and his hand climbs instinctively to cling to the handle above the door. He’s pretty sure he’s never driven with his handler before, but another part of him is pretty sure he _has_.

 _“Target approaching Cap,”_ Agent Rollins informs his handler, and the Asset forces himself to focus. He must not fail this mission.

 _My handler’s mission,_ he reminds himself, his mind frantically trying to come up with a way of completing it faithfully. Injure Nicholas Fury enough to be presumed dead. Hydra must think that the Target is not a threat…

The mission is certainly a lot more complicated than it used to be.

He’s not even sure how injured the Target is _right now,_ which makes it rather difficult to make sure nothing he does _actually_ kills him. And. Another part of him is very aware that he must make Hydra think that he is still following his original orders.

He will be punished if he fails the mission.

His _handler_ will be punished if they fail the mission.

“Stop here,” he orders, and his handler responds immediately (the Asset can’t help noticing how _well_ he listens), and the brakes of the car screech as they skid to a halt.

The Asset reaches down and grabs the magnetic bomb launcher from his stash—he still has to stop the Target’s vehicle after all— and swings himself out of the car, his mind focusing down on the mission.

In the street, the Target’s car speeds towards him, and he raises his gun. _Presumed dead,_ he reminds himself and pulls the trigger.

The bomb flies forward and attaches itself to the bottom of the Target’s car, exploding with a burst of smoke and fire. The car flips over and skids along the road with a spray of sparks, and the Asset has time to hope that the Target doesn’t do something stupid like _die,_ as he steps to the side.

The goggles and mask protect his face as he steps towards the totalled vehicle and the barest samples of a plan begin to form in his mind. He will assess the Target’s condition, if it is such that the Target can _already_ be presumed dead, then he will aim to miss when he shoots him. If not, then he will shoot him somewhere _almost_ but not quite lethally, so that he can report him dead.

 _“A 911 call got through,”_ an agent reports into his earpiece and the rest of the plan falls into place. The Target will be rescued and saved, but he will be able to claim that he presumed him dead. That way, he will be able to complete his handler’s mission. 

He’s not sure if that will be enough to avoid punishment though.

His stomach feels hollow as he reaches down to rip the door off of the Targets car, his heart pounding as he leans down to look inside. He stares. It takes a second before he understands what he’s seeing.

The Target has escaped, somehow cutting through the asphalt of the road into the sewer below. A quiet relief floods him and he straightens. “Target escaped,” he reports into his earpiece. “Location of Target, unknown.”

Various exclamations of disbelief sound over the comms but the Asset ignores them, focusing only on his handler’s voice.

 _“Regroup,”_ he says. _“We need to find Fury as soon as possible.”_

The Asset turns and marches back towards the van. His mind turning over the details of the mission as he walks. The escape of the Target has only given him a little more time. He still has to figure out a way to complete his handler’s mission without alerting Hydra to the change in parameters.

oOo

It takes a while to find the Target again and his handler feeds him his evening rations while they wait, his shoulders just as straight and tense as they’ve been all day. The Asset finds himself tense too, the alternative orders resting heavily in the back of his mind.

Eventually, after several hours, a tech agent finally announces that the Target had been sighted in ‘Captain Rogers’’ apartment. The Vault explodes into activity, but the Asset finds himself strangely caught up on his handler’s name.

He can’t stop thinking about it as his handler and Agent Rumlow start discussing the mission. He knows Handler-Rogers is also a Captain. He doesn’t know when he learned that, but he knows. It’s just… something about that name is Important.

His handler suggests letting him confront the Target first, as a civilian, in order to learn what he knows, and Agent Rumlow agrees. His handler’s shoulders drop at that and he turns to him.

“Sniping mission,” he says. “Be ready in ten.”

“Confirmed,” the Asset replies instantly as his handler turns away and another agent starts getting the rest of the mission parameters ready for him. He will be stationed on top of an apartment complex next to the one his handler lives in.

“Mission parameters still in effect,” his handler reminds him cryptically once he comes back dressed in his civilian clothes and the Asset flickers his eyes around the Vault, noting the Hydra agents around them.

“Confirmed,” he says.

 _Yes sir,_ he thinks.

oOo

It’s too dark outside now for him to wear his goggles, so Agent Rumlow helps him apply some dark camouflage to his eyes before he drives him to a point a few blocks from the Target. It’s up to him to carefully go the rest of the way and plant himself on the roof outside his handler’s building, his eyes counting the floors until he finds his handler’s room.

The windows are dark, and he waits until he hears the sound of his handler’s motorcycle pulling to a stop in front of the apartment building. He follows his handler with his eyes as he goes into the building and he waits for the lights in the room to turn on.

A few minutes later, his handler inexplicably exits the building again and heaves himself up expertly onto the fire escape. He watches a little bewildered as he pulls himself through the window of his apartment with an unexpected amount of grace before moving out of sight. There are no convenient windows to help him track his handler’s progress through the flat, and he shifts a little as he tries to be patient. He must wait until his handler is finished interrogating the Target before completing the mission.

A light flickers in one of the windows in front of him, and the Asset can now see his handler leaning against a wall, presumably talking to the Target.

The light flicks off again, without any movement from his handler, and the Asset narrows his eyes as he repositions his gun to the blank wall between the two windows of the room. The Target must be in the blind spot between them.

His handler hasn’t given him any signal to watch for to let him know when he should fire, and he sits completely still, trying to judge from the small movements of his handler’s mouth whether he has gotten the information that he wants yet. He can’t wait _too_ long before he fires, or else the Target might move or introduce another factor into the equation that will complicate the mission.

Through the window he can see his handler’s eyes and head move up slightly and he deduces that the Target must have stood up, important information if he wants to keep from killing him.

 _No headshots,_ he reminds himself as he takes aim to where he hopes is an _almost_ lethal chest shot. He breathes once and fires, his shots penetrating the dividing wall and, judging from his handler’s startled movements, hitting the Target.

His handler steps out of his sight for a second before reappearing, dragging the Target’s body further into the room and out of sight again.

Mission complete, he turns to start packing up his gun, only to freeze a moment later when his handler leans into view again, his head turned towards the front door of his apartment. The Asset’s hands still and he watches intently as his handler tenses at something out of sight.

Is his handler in danger? Should he…?

He looks down at his half-disassembled gun, his hands frozen in indecision. His handler is… top priority. There shouldn’t be any threats in the vicinity, but if there are, then he should… he should.

 _Protect,_ he thinks and he’s already half-way through reassemble before he realises that his handler has relaxed again, seemingly not concerned by the woman holding a gun and talking to him. The Asset watches for several seconds, ensuring that the woman is not a threat, before he reluctantly starts disassembling again, preparing to follow through with the rest of his orders.

 _Find somewhere secluded and wait for me,_ his handler had said, after warning him that he’d probably have to chase him down in order to keep up appearances with SHIELD.

His prediction comes true, when, moments after the Asset has finished with his gun, his handler catches his eye and darts after him in a flurry of motion. He leaps up immediately and begins to lead them both on a chase across the building’s rooftops. Despite the stress of the mission, an almost giddy bubble rises up in his chest as he runs. His handler is just as fast as him, and he can really actually _run_ as he searches for somewhere secluded for his Mission Report.

The experience is… something. Something good.

Too soon though, he halts on a rooftop, and turns to face his handler. His eyes are drawn irresistibly to the circle of metal on his handler’s arm—a shield— he realises, although, he’s not sure why someone would need something like that. Most people don’t carry around a shield.

Still… something about it… seems _right._

“Mission accomplished,” he informs his handler, quietly hoping that he’s speaking the truth. He’d done his best, but he _had_ shot the Target. The Target could very well die despite his best efforts.

His handler takes in a breath and relaxes slightly. “Well done,” he says, and the words send an unexpected wave of warmth flooding through him. “Return to base and await further orders.”

Keeping his reaction to the praise internal, the Asset nods, his eye catching on his handler’s shield once again before he turns and drops over the edge of the building, intent on heading back to Agent Rumlow’s van.

 _Well done._ He turns the words over in his mind as he goes, and a deep sense of satisfaction settles into his bones.

He arrives at the van, but Agent Rumlow leaves to meet his handler back at his apartment, so a different, less important agent, drives him back to the Vault, where he knows he will be debriefed and then sent back to his cell until his next Hydra mission.

Already, he can feel himself starting to lose the hyper focus that a mission brings him, and sinking back into the dazed numbness that he spends most of his time in.

Still, he can’t help thinking back to his handler’s words. _Well done,_ he’d said. The Asset had done well, he’d done well.

He closes his eyes in his seat and relaxes a little. That is… good.

oOo

He gets driven back to base, and because his handler isn’t there, it’s up to the agent in the van to relieve him of his weapons and mask. The agent’s face twists in annoyance at the task, but ever since Handler-Rogers has started taking an interest in the Asset’s treatment, the rest of the agents in the Vault have begrudgingly begun to be a little more patient with him, and he manages to get through the whole procedure without any ‘helpful prodding’ from the agent.

Once his face is clean from his camouflage and his gear stored away, he’s led back to his cell and told to wait for his next mission. By now he knows that his handler will expect him to have at least three hours of sleep by the time he comes back, and the Asset doubts he will be sent on another mission so soon after the last one, so he deems it safe enough to lay down and rest for a few hours.

Once the three hours are up, he still hasn’t been called out on a new mission, and the downtime gives him a chance to start questioning his actions.

His handler had told him not to kill the Target and not to tell Hydra about his new orders, orders which he had done his best to follow… but… what if Hydra found out that he had failed his mission?

He’s unable to prevent the shiver that runs through him at the thought of the punishment that would come should Hydra learn he failed their mission. The Asset is not supposed to fail.

But what if his handler had been following Hydra all along? What if his new orders actually _are_ Hydra’s orders? What if Hydra had changed its mission, and his handler _hadn’t_ been going against Hydra after all?

The Asset relaxes slightly. _That must be it_ , he reasons a little desperately. His handler wouldn’t go against Hydra. His handler is _good._

He tries not to think too hard about why his handler wouldn’t want him to tell Hydra about the change in parameters.

oOo

Agent Rumlow eventually comes to give him his morning ration and doesn’t say anything either way about failing or succeeding at his mission, and the Asset tries to take that as a good sign.

He spends another full day waiting in his cell before Rumlow comes to give him a new mission. A part of him— a part that he tries to bury as soon as he recognises it— is disappointed when the door opens and his handler isn’t the one waiting there to prep him for his new mission.

He wants to ask where Handler-Rogers is, but he’s fairly certain that the thin patience of the Vault’s agents won’t hold up against that kind of questioning, so he keeps his mouth shut. He can’t help noticing that the base seems more energetic than usual though, a buzz of excitement underlying everything around him, leaving him to wonder quietly at what could be happening.

The agent preparing him seems distracted, and doesn’t give him his goggles, and the Asset isn’t sure if that’s intentional or not. He doesn’t mention it, because it might be an important choice for this new mission, but he accepts the offered mask easily, the familiar feel almost comforting as it sits against his face.

He isn’t outfitted with any long-range weapons, so he knows this won’t be a sniping mission, and the agent hands him an earpiece to put on. “Your handler will probably meet up with you at the end of the mission,” he informs him lazily as the Asset slips the comm into his right ear. “Your mission is to guard the Hellicarrier you are assigned against any internal attack until it reaches targeting range.”

“Confirmed,” the Asset replies, and the agent shoves a set of schematics for a giant ship into his hands.

“Be ready in ten,” he orders, before darting off to look at a monitor.

The Asset doesn’t bother with another ‘confirmed’, instead focusing on the schematics in his hands, his eyes zeroing in on the weak points of the ship. Whoever had designed this had left the internal core almost completely exposed for some reason.

oOo

Ten minutes later and he’s in the van, driving out with the rest of the STRIKE team and he gathers from their conversation that they’re heading towards the Triskelion. The earpiece in his ear echoes their quiet discussion of ‘Hydra’s master plan’, but he keeps quiet, wishing—just a little bit— that his handler’s voice would sound over the comm.

Once they arrive at the Triskelion, he’s sent to stealthily infiltrate the third Helicarrier and he stations himself next to the ship’s core. He’s not sure what kind of threats Hydra is expecting, but he will be ready for them when they arrive.

“ _Attention SHIELD agents_ ,” a voice tinged with sass sounds suddenly over the speaker system and he looks up, his brow furling at the strange interruption. _“I’m sure you know who I am, of course you do.”_

 _“What is_ Stark _doing on the PA system?”_ Agent Rumlow grumbles into the comm and the Asset shifts his stance a little.

“ _Today’s a big day,”_ ‘Stark’ continues, managing to sound both dry and sarcastic over the speaker system. _“But not for the reasons you’d think,”_ he says. _“See, turns out SHIELD is not what we thought._ ” His voice drops. _“It’s been taken over by Hydra.”_

A shiver runs down the Asset’s spine and Agent Rumlow curses, various other agents giving cries of alarm and disbelief over the comm.

“ _How on_ earth _did he find that out?”_ Agent Rollins growls, almost drowning out Stark’s next words.

“ _Alexander Pierce is their leader,”_ he says. _“And the Helicarrier launch will give him and Hydra the power to kill anyone they want.”_

“ _Okay, stop gawking,_ ” Agent Rumlow orders sharply over the comms. “ _We knew something was coming, time to get those Helicarriers in the air.”_

“ _We didn’t know_ Iron Man _would be fighting us,_ ” an agent mumbles sulkily into the comm as various other agents give affirmatives to Agent Rumlow’s order.

 _Stark must be one of the threats_ , the Asset decides, and he widens his stance to keep his balance as the Helicarrier’s engines ignite under him and start prepping for take off. That one agent had called him Iron Man, and he realises that Stark must be one of the agents on the Avengers team. Hydra had debriefed him on that team briefly once it had come to fruition, but they’d said his handler was monitoring their threat level.

 _Iron Man must be very clever if he managed to fool my handler_ , he concludes as the ship shudders beneath him and starts to rise up into the sky. He blinks and squints as his eyes adjust to the sun that shines through the window and he follows the skyline lazily with his eyes. Whoever had designed the Helicarriers had made the hull of the ship almost entirely out of glass. He has to admit that it has a nice view, even if it _does_ leave the main core exposed.

He blinks and gives an abrupt shake of his head, reminding himself of his mission and noting the bulk of another Helicarrier rising to his left. He isn’t here for sight-seeing. He has a job to do.

 _“I’m counting at least three hostiles, including Iron Man,”_ an agent reports into his ear. “ _Black Widow and some guy with wings or something.”_

 _“See if you can cut them off before they get to the Helicarriers,”_ Agent Rumlow orders quickly.

 _“Negative,”_ the agent replies, and the Asset swallows uneasily. _“Hostiles are already in the air and some SHIELD agents are trying to make trouble.”_

Agent Rumlow growls frustratedly into the comms before seeming to come to a decision. _“They need to over-ride all three Helicarriers in order to stop us,”_ he says, his voice tight as he thinks. _“We’ll go deal with any SHIELD problems. Asset,_ ” the Asset perks up. _“Guard the Helicarrier you’re in. As long as we have one, we should be good.”_

“Confirmed,” he replies into his comm before his head twitches to look out the window in surprise as the Helicarrier next to him starts firing. He narrows his eyes as he sees what looks like a man with jetpack wings and… a _woman_ strapped to his front flying and trying to dodge the firepower of the next-door Helicarrier.

He follows the strange pair with his eyes until they fly out of sight, the sound of the STRIKE team relaying orders to each other continuing in the background as he waits. Anyone wanting to do any true damage to the Helicarrier would have to come to the core of the ship, so staying here is the most logical course of action. He can’t help feeling a little out of place though as he watches the Hostiles continue their assault on the other Helicarriers.

They disappear for a while and an agent curses suddenly in the comms, shouting something about Black Widow and ‘the winged dude’ but the Asset is quickly distracted away as red and gold flashes past the windows. It flies back again and pauses to hover outside, giving him time to recognize the metal humanoid. He clenches his jaw under his mask and widens his stance.

Iron Man has arrived.

He flickers his eyes again to the horizon as Iron Man begins shooting some sort of laser at the glass of the hull. It’s hard to tell how high the Helicarrier has gotten, but all he needs to do is fend off Iron Man long enough for it to reach targeting range, after that…

He blinks, momentarily distracted from his planning. Nobody had explained what kind of extraction plan this mission has. He doesn’t quite know what to do once the Helicarrier reaches targeting range.

A red glow outlines Iron Man’s progress as he cuts through the hull and the Asset tightens his stance, focusing back on him. After the mission, he will wait for his handler, his handler will think of an extraction for him, right now he needs to focus on the mission.

Iron Man finishes breaking into the hull, the cut out glass falling to the floor with a deafening crash as he pushes it and flies in. The Asset tenses as he glides over to land directly opposite from him, settling at the end of the maintenance bridge leading to the main core. Iron Man’s eyes glow white as he stares him down and the Asset stands ready, running through the threat analysis that he’d gotten on him as he waits for the Avenger to make the first move.

 _Repulsors,_ he thinks, eying the robot hands and feet of the suit. _Increased strength, speed, flight capabilities—_

Something crackles over his comm and he freezes, confusion shooting through him as the voices of the STRIKE team cut out, the sudden silence almost dizzying. His heart starts pounding faster in his chest and he tries to remember if ‘remote hacking’ had been part of Iron Man’s abilities.

 _“Asset.”_ His eyes widen and relief rushes through him as his handler’s voice sounds in his ear. That relief is cut away almost immediately though, at his handler’s next words. _“Stand down. Do not engage Iron Man.”_

His breath stutters behind his mask and he continues to stand frozen, confusion and distress swirling around as he tries to compute his handler’s most recent orders.

Stand down.

Stand _down._

That is not— that’s not— his eyes dart up to Iron Man and he knows, he _knows_ that if he stands down then Iron Man will be able to compromise the ship and defeat Hydra and that _cannot be what Hydra wants_. That is _not_ his mission. Those are _not_ his orders. Those Are Not his orders and if he fails his mission then he will be punished—

 _But they’re my_ Handler’s _orders!_ His mind screams, his stomach twisting with anxiety as he fights to keep his hands from shaking. His handler has given him orders. He should follow his handler’s order. _That is what he’s supposed to do._ He follows orders, he _knows_ that, and his handler Has Given Him Orders.

( _The Helicarrier launch will give Hydra the power to kill anyone they want_ , Stark had said.)

His mouth opens and closes a few times behind his mask, and he breathes in uneasily.

It’s fine. It is fine. He _is_ following orders. He is following his _handler’s_ orders. He isn’t disobeying. He isn’t. 

He swallows and the words from last time rise up in his mind. “…Yes, sir,” he says carefully into the comm, a shiver running through him as he steps jerkily out of the way.

Iron Man takes a cautionary step forward, seeming to scan him, before rushing forward in a flurry of clanking metal and red and gold. The Asset turns and deliberately wraps his left hand around the handrailing next to him, staring fixedly ahead while Iron Man types a code into the main core terminal and inserts a new chip into the system.

 _I’m following orders,_ he reminds himself over and over in his head. _It’s fine. I’m following orders._

Iron Man steps back and the Asset eyes him warily before his handler’s voice comes back onto the comms and he zeroes in on it. _“Asset,”_ Handler-Rogers says, the authority of his voice calming some of the storm inside his head. _“Go with Iron Man and wait for further orders.”_

“Yes sir,” he replies immediately, latching on to the order with both hands. He can do this. If he just follows his handler’s orders, everything will be fine. This is fine.

Iron Man turns to him and his helmet retracts. The Asset blinks. Something about his face… his brow ticks down as he takes in the brown eyes and messy hair. Something about them… Whatever it is, he doesn’t have much time to wonder, because Iron Man is already taking action.

“Okay, so this place is gonna blow soon,” he says with a wave of his hand and something clicks as two pieces of metal on the armor near his ankles and shoulders jut out a few inches. “So…” he continues, rubbing his gauntlets together. “This is never really… dignified, but if you come up behind me and step on these, you can hang on while I fly us out of here.”

The Asset eyes the footholds a little skeptically, but his handler had ordered him to go with Iron Man, so there isn’t really any point in questioning him. He releases his grip on the handrailing and steps forward, edging behind Iron Man so that he can step up onto the footholds. It takes a moment to figure out the best way to wrap his arms around his shoulders so that he’s not hindering any movement, but soon he’s situated as securely possible, given the situation.

“Okay.” Iron Man shifts carefully. “We shouldn’t have to fly far. Hang on.” The Asset has to make a conscious effort not to squeeze the shoulder handhold too hard with his metal hand as Iron Man activates his thrusters and they jerk upwards, carefully and unsteadily making their way towards the hole cut into the side of the hull.

The wind whips at his unprotected eyes as they exit and the Asset ducks his head slightly, part of him wishing that he had asked for his goggles back at the Vault. Iron Man navigates them carefully downwards and the Asset swallows nervously, unable to keep from wondering what will await him now, once he gets back to base. He’s _definitely_ failed his mission this time.

“Hey Wilson, how’d it feel to sock it to Rumlow?” The Asset tenses as Iron Man speaks up unexpectedly, before his eyes catch on an earpiece nestled in his ear and he realises that he must be communicating with his team. Iron Man lands gently, although a little shakily, on the banks of what seems to be a river, and the Asset dismounts, turning over the words he’d just heard. Agent Rumlow and the STRIKE team had gone to take care of SHIELD, had they been neutralised?

The sounds of an explosion vibrates through the air above him, and the steady rat-tat-tat of machine guns cuts into his thoughts and he turns to see the Helicarriers firing, pieces of their hulls already beginning to break off and fall into the water below as their weapons charge up and target each other.

His stomach clenches and he fights to keep a neutral expression on his face as he watches, wishing again that he had his goggles. He’s much safer, much less likely to slip up, when he’s able to hide his facial expressions. Thankfully, he still has his mask, and Iron Man seems to be just as fixated by the Helicarriers as he is. After a moment, he bites the inside of his cheek and glances away from the firestorm. He’s really _really_ failed his mission.

 _I was following my Handler’s orders,_ he reminds himself desperately and he breathes in, closing his eyes for a second as he tries to sort through his programming.

He has to decide, _right now_ , who has priority, if he wants to have any peace at all. Hydra had given him a mission, but they’d also given him a handler, and he’s _important._ His handler had _also_ given him a mission, and _that_ is the one that he’d followed. He opens his eyes and sets his jaw, falling into parade rest and zoning out slightly, the rest of the world becoming less important as he fixates onto his handler’s final orders.

Wait for further orders.

Whatever happens, whether he is punished or not, he will wait for his handler. Those are his orders. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to update on Wednesdays this time since it works better with my schedule now. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I wanted to show how Bucky's actions really ARE his choice, but he has to twist his reasoning around his programming because it's hard for him to even contemplate betraying Hydra.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which protocols are changed and the Asset is taken to Avengers tower.

Iron Man’s teammates, Black Widow and presumably ‘Wilson’ soon land on the banks of the river, their eyes skating over him uneasily before inevitably being drawn to the destruction overhead. The Asset tenses at their arrival, their ‘Hostile’ status causing alarm bells to ring throughout his programming.

 _Waiting for my handler,_ he reminds himself over and over again, trying to settle back into himself. _I am waiting for my handler._

Iron Man’s companions murmur a few words to each other, and the Asset overhears Iron Man transmitting a location to someone, before he finally _finally_ catches sight of his handler, the familiar white and blues of his uniform easing some of the tension in his chest.

His handler sweeps his eyes over the scene as he approaches and pauses briefly next to Iron Man, leaning his head down to murmur a few words to him. It isn’t any of the Asset’s business what his handler does, but his ears are sensitive enough to pick up on their conversation anyways.

“Pierce is dead,” Handler-Rogers tells Stark quietly, and the Asset fights to keep a rock-solid grip on his expression as the death of Hydra’s leader washes over him. His heart twists uncomfortably in his chest and his hands tighten behind his back, his handler’s last orders repeating through his mind like a mantra as he tries not to panic.

 _I followed orders_ , he reminds himself, trying not to tie Pierce’s death back to his own mission failure. _I followed orders. I am obedient to my handlers. I followed orders._

Still, he knows that it doesn’t really matter if he had been trying to follow orders or not. Hydra or his handler will be completely justified if they want to punish him for his actions during his most recent mission. Pierce is dead and the Helicarriers falling from the sky and—

His handler steps up to him and he focuses on him desperately, his programming churning unhappily in his brain. “Well done Asset,” his handler says, and the words wash through his system like a balm. It’s only through sheer willpower that he manages to keep from staggering backwards in relief at his handler’s praise.

He’d done well. That’s good. He’d done good, he’d done _good_.

Satisfied with his handler’s approval, his programming sits back only slightly, hissing anxiously now at the number of Hostiles still at play and his eyes flicker minutely as he scans the area, assessing the threat level. The Hostiles aren’t doing anything right now but if they do should he engage them? Normally he would, but his handler had said to _go with_ Iron Man…

His handler glances behind as well and turns back, his face determined. “Threat designation change,” he says, and the Asset’s programming latches greedily onto the familiar rhetoric. “Avengers, Avenger allies and SHIELD agents, no longer a threat.” Handler-Rogers’ chin raises and the Asset can feel his programming practically clicking into place at his words. “Effective immediately, all Hydra agents are no longer allies, report sighting to your superior.”

“Confirmed,” he replies firmly, the pieces of his mental world map finally shifting and fitting into an acceptable picture. He can do this. His handler is priority now, he can follow his orders. Appeased, his programming finally settles down as he mentally starts shuffling his threat priorities, zoning out properly for the first time since completing his mission, barely paying attention as his handler continues to converse with the other Avengers.

It isn’t until the sounds of some sort of airplane engine fills the air that he refocuses, his eyes drawn to his handler as they wait for the small ship to land nearby. He scans the craft quietly, noting its quinjet design, consistent with the SHIELD files that he’d read… his brows furl, he’s not sure when, actually. At some point, he’d received a debriefing on SHIELD, but the exact date had probably been wiped from his memory long ago, leaving only the relevant information behind.

“Asset, to me,” his handler orders as the ramp to the quinjet lowers, and he follows him onboard silently, his movements stiff and by-the-book as he tries to adjust to his new situation. He’s never completed a mission quite like this one before and it’s hard to know what to expect.

His handler points out a seat for him to use and settles down next to him as the rest of the Avengers climb on board. Handler-Rogers sits back tiredly, his eyes closing as he leans his head back and the ship’s engines ignite and vibrate under them. Behind his mask, the Asset swallows nervously and scans the ship in a quick sweep before focusing back on his handler. Anxiety twists in his stomach and he tries to push it down as the other Avengers murmur quietly to themselves and he works on being the Best Asset Possible right now.

He’s not exactly sure what is happening or what to expect next, but, he has his handler, and his handler will take care of everything. He just… has to follow orders and everything will be fine.

oOo

He’s not exactly sure where they’re going, but that’s not really a new feeling for him, and it doesn’t take long either way. It’s less than an hour, by his estimations, before the jet starts losing altitude and lands smoothly on a wide landing pad.

His handler’s eyes open as they land and at a gesture, the Asset follows him out of the ship, the rest of the Avengers not far behind as they cross the landing pad and file into what seems to be a large living room and dining area. The Asset has only vague recollections of a kitchen associated with ex-handler Pierce, and all he can say is, this one is definitely bigger.

A man with messy brown hair and glasses approaches them and the Asset tenses briefly before he identifies him as Doctor Bruce Banner, AKA, the Hulk, an Avenger and therefore not a Hostile.

Doctor Banner’s eyes flicker over them and he stands with his shoulders slightly hunched, as though trying to make himself look smaller. “I, uh, saw what you guys did, on the news,” he says, after a moment.

Coming in behind him, Iron Man’s armour disengages and folds away with a hiss revealing Tony Stark as he steps out, his brown eyes and gait again strangely familiar, and the Asset can only wonder if he had received multiple debriefings on this man before for some reason. Stark sweeps past him and heads towards the kitchen’s fridge, pulling out several plastic water bottles. The Asset swallows, his throat taking the chance to announce its sudden dryness as Stark and Banner begin passing out the bottles.

He swallows again and watches as his handler receives one, trying to calculate when his next feeding time will be. He’d received his morning one, so he probably won’t get anything until evening…

His handler cracks open the water, draining half of it while the Asset tries not to look longingly at the drops of condensation collecting around the outside. He swallows instinctively before his handler turns to him and his chest constricts in a split-second spike of fear, worried that his staring had overstepped some kind of boundary somewhere.

“Drink,” is all his handler says, holding out the water, and the Asset is already reaching for it, his hand almost moving by itself, before he remembers that his mask is still on and in the way. He reaches up with one hand to unclasp it and hand it over to his handler, his brain almost completely focused on the water at hand.

His handler says something about heading to med-bay as he swallows down what’s left in the bottle, and it isn’t until he’s finished that he has the presence of mind to worry that he may not have been supposed to finish the whole thing.

His handler doesn’t seem to mind though, simply taking the empty bottle from his hand and setting it aside before motioning him towards an elevator, the mask still clasped tightly in his hand. The other Avengers move to follow along, and as they pile into the elevator the Asset finds himself shifting to stand at attention behind his handler’s left shoulder.

The world seems to tilts as he moves, refracting so it feels like he’s hovering outside himself, watching as he stands on his handler’s left side. For one stark moment he’s so abruptly _sure_ he’s done this before that he almost feels dizzy.

A heartbeat later and the world snaps back into place and the Asset is left blinking, trying not to let on how disorientated he had gotten. _Maintenance is required,_ he thinks tiredly, clenching his hands behind his back. It’s been too long since he’s last been wiped and he’s starting to malfunction.

He suppresses a shiver at the thought and steps out after his handler as they reach their destination. He is not looking forward to maintenance.

Med-bay in the Avengers Tower is strikingly different from the Vault. Instead of washed out, yellowing tile and buzzing fluorescent lights, he is greeted with a rather spacious room. Curtains hang from the ceiling, separating the beds made up with white linen lining the walls and the overall effect leaves the room much brighter and airier than he’d been expecting.

His handler leads him to a bed near the back of the room and the hanging curtain cuts them off partially from the other Avengers as the team settles and allow Doctor Banner to examine them. For his part, Handler-Roger waves him towards the bed and the Asset complies cautiously, the softness of the mattress feeling foreign against his legs.

His handler sets his mask down onto the bedside cabinet before clasping his hands behind his back and standing stiffly in front of him. “Mission Report,” he orders, and the Asset relaxes at the familiar post-mission debriefing protocols.

He feels his mind glazing over slightly as he settles into the routine and responds. “Agent Rumlow came to deploy the Asset in defense of the Helicarriers,” he reports dutifully. “The Asset waited on the Helicarrier until the arrival of the Avenger designated Iron Man. Contradictory orders to stand down received and followed. Helicarriers destroyed.”

The med-bay is silent around him and he tries not to swallow nervously. He _had_ followed orders, but he had _also_ defied orders, and that is generally unacceptable. He risks a glance at his handler and his eyes are closed, the tight expression on his face sending waves of uncertainty through his gut.

Handler-Rogers opens his eyes again, his face almost blank as he continues with the debriefing and the Asset isn’t sure if that’s a good sign or not. “Damage Report.”

“No damage to report,” he replies, glad at least, that with this he can report good news. His handler scans him as if assessing him himself before his eyes flicker upwards for a second. The Asset breathes in and tries to settle into himself, wishing that he could zone out a little better right now. It’s easier to comply and avoid punishment when he doesn’t have to think so much.

His handler looks back down at him and he can’t keep himself from meeting his gaze. “Prepare for changes in protocol,” Handler-Rogers orders and the Asset nods.

“Confirmed,” he replies, his programming shifting and waking up in his brain.

Handler-Rogers nods back, his shoulders straight and stiff as he stands at attention. “Avengers Tower now considered home base of operation,” he informs him and the Asset blinks slowly as he mentally replaces the Vault with the Avengers Tower as his primary headquarters. He presses his hand down onto the mattress under him and he doesn’t think he will mind switching bases. This one seems to be much more comfortable, even if his cell probably won’t be outfitted quite so lavishly as this.

Handler-Rogers raises his chin as he continues with further protocols and the Asset focuses back on him. “Cryofreeze and wiping protocols, suspended indefinitely,” he says bluntly, and the Asset just barely manages to keep his surprise from being written all over his face.

 _Suspended… indefinitely?_ He doesn’t… He doesn’t… know… how to deal with that. He _needs_ those protocols, doesn’t he? In order to be a good asset, he needs to be wiped or else he malfunctions and fails his missions and if he can’t be a good asset for his handler then—

Confusion wells up in his chest and his hand tightens on the mattress as he stares at his handler, trying to understand. Maybe… maybe this is a test, or maybe his next mission _needs_ him not to be wiped, maybe wiping will be dangerous for that mission so that’s why—

His handler shifts slightly, and the Asset focuses on him his mind spinning. “Current mission,” Handler-Rogers begins and his heart leaps at the words. “Live in Avengers Tower.”

His eyebrow twitches down before he can stop it and he pulls back into himself abruptly, desperately trying to sort through what he’s just been told. The mission doesn’t make any sense, but it isn’t up to him to question the missions he receives. His handler knows best, so of course any mission he receives from him is important, he just… doesn’t understand this one right now.

 _I don’t know how to complete this mission,_ he realises slightly panicked as he frantically shuffles through his Hydra training. He’s never had to complete a mission like this before, he doesn’t know how to succeed. He doesn’t know what succeeding even _looks_ like. And he wants to succeed. His handler has _given_ him this mission and he’s the _best_ handler he’s ever had. It isn’t fair to him to fail all the time, and the Asset doesn’t _want_ to fail. He doesn’t, he just… doesn’t know what to do with this mission.

 _I can still try_ , he thinks determinedly, his eyes hardening as he resolves to do his _utmost_ to follow ever direction his handler gives him, regardless of what malfunctions might crop up now that his wiping protocols have been suspended. His handler is _good_ , and the Asset can be good too. 

His handler is speaking again, and he latches on, filing away his words with as much concentration as he would for any other missions. He will not fail this.

“Several people currently live in Avengers Tower,” Handler-Rogers informs him before giving him a quick run-down of each of the Avengers. “Civilians and SHIELD agents also sometimes enter the tower,” he warns. “Security protocols should prevent any intruders from entering, so unknown occupants should not be attacked unless they are known intruders.”

“Confirmed,” the Asset replies, feeling a little relieved at the knowledge that his handler is willing to give him further instruction for this new mission. In all honesty, he probably shouldn’t have worried, his handler has already proved that he is far more attentive and considerate than most of his other handlers.

“This tower is equipped with an advanced computer assistant named JARVIS,” his handler continues, glancing briefly at the ceiling. “JARIVS, can you introduce yourself?”

The Asset feels his heart practically stop and his eyes dart up to the ceiling as a disembodied voice speaks up. “Hello Sergeant Barnes,” it says as the Asset works on calming his pulse and a small part of his brain sputters in confusion at the term ‘Sergeant Barnes’. “As Captain Rogers explained, I monitor this tower and its occupants,” ‘JARVIS’ continues. “And assist and protect them when needed.”

The Asset keeps his face pointed towards the ceiling as he turns over the computer’s words. He’s glad at least that he has some warning that he will be monitored. He will have to be careful to follow all his protocols while in the tower.

(Sergeant _Barnes?_ )

His handler shifts and the Asset drops his attention back down onto him. “If you require assistance with something,” he begins. “Ask JARIVS and he will help you.” The Asset nods at the order, wondering briefly if JARVIS is intended to help him with his new mission.

His handler scans him for a second, the look in his eyes tugging at something in the Asset’s brain. Before he can figure out what it is, his handler begins talking again. “JARVIS is designed to monitor the occupants of the tower,” he says, and the Asset tenses internally. “However, he cannot reveal anything personal about anyone unless given explicit permission or if someone is considered to be in danger.”

Confusion swirls around in the Asset’s chest because he’s not quite sure why his handler feels the need to mention that, but, it’s probably important for his mission somehow, so he makes an effort to remember it. His attention is quickly stolen though, by a sound at the foot of the bed. He flicks his eyes subtly to the left and finds Stark standing there with something he eventually recognises to be ration bars of some kind clutched in his hand.

“You want one?” he asks, offering them up to his handler. Handler-Rogers blinks slowly at him before turning and taking one. (The Asset is beginning to wonder if he has some sort of protective programming that he isn’t aware of because the sight of his handler accepting food triggers… something in him that he can’t quite identify but he thinks it’s good.)

“Bucky can’t eat solid food right now,” his handler tells Stark lowly, and something hard flickers briefly over the engineer’s face, but the Asset is too busy mulling over the word ‘Bucky’ to really pay attention. In the background, his handler sets out his dietary needs (and the Asset wonders if the Avengers will have some part to play later in his maintenance… but mostly he focuses on the word Bucky— it feels… something about it feels…)

“When did you last eat?” His handler’s voice cuts into his thoughts and the Asset scrambles to reply.

“The Asset received his morning ration,” he says, mentally scolding himself for getting distracted. If he doesn’t have any wiping protocols left to keep him in working order, he’s going to have to be extra vigilant if he wants to be a good asset.

His handler asks for the JARVIS computer to scan him and the Asset freezes deathly still as it does so, intent on complying perfectly. If he does everything he’s asked by his handler, as carefully as he can, then maybe he will be able to succeed at his mission, even without his regular maintenance.

“The Sergeant has no immediate medical needs,” JARVIS reports after the scan, and the Asset allows himself to start breathing a little deeper again. “However, I believe his prosthetic arm could stand for a few adjustments.”

Something sour settles in the pit of his stomach and he fights to keep from tensing. He _hates_ when his arm needs to be maintained. Phantom pain sparks through his shoulder as a reminder and he breathes in carefully. He is fine, maintenance is unavoidable, he will just have to comply and bear it as usual.

“Thank you, JARVIS,” his handler says, before turning back towards Stark. He sways suddenly as he moves and the Asset’s heart leaps into his throat as his handler seems to pitch forward. Before he can do anything (get up? Should he get up? Catch his handler? He shouldn’t let him fall—), Stark darts forward, bracing his hand against Handler-Rogers shoulder.

“Woah, Cap,” his says, the concern in his eyes mirroring the Asset’s own emotional state. “When’s the last time you _slept?_ ”

His handler blinks heavily a few times as the Asset stares tensely at him (he should—what should he do? There’s something—). “Slept this morning,” he protests weakly, the look of exhaustion on his face not doing much for his argument.

“Only for like, half an hour.” The Asset jerks his eyes over as the other flyer, Wilson, appears at Stark’s shoulder and gives his handler an assessing look. “You need to cash-in man,” he says firmly as Handler-Rogers stands up fully. “You’ve even still got your earpieces in.” His handler seems to blink in surprise at that before he brings his hand up to his ears and pulls a comm unit out of each.

“Go get changed,” Wilson says gently, stepping to the side. “Take a nap. You’ll feel better afterwards.” His handler nods numbly, almost automatically, his eyes hooded as he moves to step past him.

All at once, the Asset panics, his heartbeat skyrocketing as he realises that he’s going to be left alone in this place, with these people, without his handler, while he doesn’t even know where his cell is— and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do— he doesn’t understand the mission yet—

His handler stops abruptly, his eyes a little clearer as he turns back towards him, and the Asset can’t keep himself from meeting his eyes for a brief moment. He doesn’t want to be left here— he doesn’t want— but he needs to be a good asset— he needs—

His handler steps back and the Asset can feel his pulse start to slow in response. He can only hope as he relaxes that he hasn’t failed any portion of his mission yet and/or that his handler hasn’t noticed his moment of weakness.

His handler runs a hand through his hair and stares in front of himself for a moment, seemingly following some sort of internal debate, before his raises his head and looks back towards him. “Asset, to me,” he orders quietly, and the Asset gets up immediately, relief flooding through him at the order.

He can do this, he can handle the protocol changes and the new mission and the new allies, and he can be a good asset, he can do well because he has his handler and as long as he follows his handler, then everything will be fine, and he will follow his handler anywhere.

(To the end of— To the end of the—)

oOo

His handler leads him down the hall towards the elevator and he can’t help but marvel at this new base of operations. It hardly seems like a base at all—at least, not one like the Vault.

 _Even the floors are different,_ he thinks, brushing his feet against the fabric lining the floor. _Carpet,_ a small part of his brain whispers and he can’t remember where he learned that word.

As he enters the elevator behind his handler (he stands on his left again because it seems _right_ ), he also notes the lack of agents around. Back at the Vault, the place had been constantly swimming with agents training or going about their business, but here, there is almost nobody else but the other Avengers. Of course, it could simply be that the Tower is just _bigger_ than the Vault, but it feels… sort of nice… not to be constantly surrounded by faceless agents all the time.

The elevator dings open and his handler leads him down a short hallway to a closed door. “This is my room,” he says, with a gesture. “You can stay here for now.”

He… the Asset tries not to tense in surprise. He… he will be staying… with his handler? He fights to keep a straight face as confusion swirls around inside him, part of him wishing that he’d been given back his mask to help hide his face. That had been left back in the med-bay though and he can’t ask for it now.

He stares at his handler’s door. He’d been expecting to be brought to a cell, like usual, he isn’t supposed to— his handlers are separate from him, ( _better,_ his mind reminds him) and he doesn’t deserve— he isn’t supposed to—

He follows his handler inside anyways, because he thinks that _refusing_ would be worse. So far, his handler has yet to punish him and he doesn’t want to give him any reason to change that.

He sweeps the area with his eyes as they head down a small hallway that splits off into what looks to be a kitchen and continues on towards a living room. In the living room a couch sits facing a TV and a bank of windows, and there are two doors leading out of the room, one on the left and one on the right.

“You can go anywhere in these rooms freely,” his handler tells him as they enter, leading him past the couch towards the door on the right. “And you can use anything in them without permission.” He opens the door to reveal a white tiled bathroom and the Asset blinks in surprise at the liberal orders, he isn’t often afforded this much freedom. “If you don’t know how to use something, ask me or JARVIS,” his handler continues. 

“Confirmed,” he replies, filing away the information to examine later. There’s got to be something about these orders that he isn’t comprehending, they’re not like standard instructions at _all._

 _Maybe they’re a test,_ he wonders nervously. _Something to assess whether or not I will step out of bounds._ He scans his handler uneasily as they head back towards the middle of the living room. His handler has never given him reason to believe that he would do such a thing, but still… it’s probably better to be safe rather than sorry right now.

“I’ll give you a tour of the rest of the tower later,” his handler is saying. “For now, you can…” His eyes dart up to sweep over him and he trails off for a second. “Wait here,” he says finally, and the Asset falls obediently into parade-rest as Handler-Rogers heads over to the door on the left.

 _It’s a bedroom_ , the Asset realises as he waits for his handler’s return. Anxiety swims in his stomach at the sight of the open door as he’s reminded once again that these are his _handler’s_ quarters. He really shouldn’t be here.

His handler returns with a bundle of clothes and sets them on the couch beside him. “I’m going to take a nap,” he says decisively. “You…” His eyes flicker over him again and he presses his lips together in a way that sends tendrils of worry squirming through the Asset’s gut. Has he done something wrong? He thought that he had complied—

“Sleep here if you need to,” his handler continues undeterred, motioning to the couch. “If you require a shower, JARVIS can show you how to operate the one in the bathroom.” He pats the pile of clothes. “Change into these clothes and leave your uniform and weapons in a pile over there.” He points towards a corner between the TV and the wall.

Surprise and relief at the simple orders sweeps through him and he scans the room once with his eyes before nodding at his handler. “Confirmed,” he says firmly, despite the strangeness of his orders.

His handler’s face tightens inexplicably at his response and he turns away, heading back towards his room before the Asset can try to figure out what he’d done wrong. He waits tensely for a moment and he can hear his handler standing still for quite a while before finally moving to close the door (only half-way for some reason, is he intending to monitor him?) and eventually settling into bed.

The Asset relaxes slightly at the sound of rustling sheets and he looks around himself, his eyes scanning the pile of clothes that he’d been provided. _These are my_ handler’s _clothes,_ an uneasy part of his mind supplies. He’s… probably not supposed to… But, his handler had _given_ him these clothes. He had _ordered_ him to wear them.

The Asset’s steps are almost jerky as he moves stiffly towards the pile, his movements robotic as he bends down to separate the clothes into their various functions for proper assessment. The clothes are far too light and soft to be effective on any sort of mission, and he rubs the smooth fabric of the pants slowly between his fingers as he examines them. Besides colour (black and grey), the clothes could not be any further from what he would normally be given for a mission.

 _Of course, this isn’t a normal mission_ , he thinks quietly as he starts unstrapping the various holsters on his uniform for his guns and knives. He’s forced to pause after a second though, indecision muddling his brain as he goes to set his multitude of weapons on the floor by the TV.

Normally, in such a foreign situation, he would prefer to keep at least one or two knives, or maybe a gun, on his person, as a safety precaution. But his handler had said that JARVIS is tasked with securing the tower… and he’d been _ordered_ to set his weapons aside.

He stills, half crouched as he stares down at his weapons. He wants to keep one, just in case, _especially_ since his handler is right next door, and he can still feel the strange incessant need to _protect_ bubbling up underneath his programming. But… he’d been _ordered_ to put down his weapons. He’s not… he can’t disobey orders.

(He’d been following orders in the Hellicarrier, he _had._ )

He stands up abruptly, his mouth set in a grim line as he leaves his weapons behind and jerkily starts undoing the straps of his shirt. He will leave his arsenal for now, he will most likely be able to reach them quickly enough anyways, should a threat appear.

His shirt and pants get set aside by the TV as well as he dons his new clothes (he switches out his socks but keeps his boots on, since his handler hadn’t given him any and he isn’t prepared to go barefoot.) That done, he’s left with the dilemma of what to do while he waits. Normally, in his cell, there isn’t much else to do _besides_ wait… but here… His eyes flicker around the room and he resists the urge to perform a perimeter check. These are his _handler’s_ rooms, it would be inappropriate to search them.

Not to mention that JARVIS will be able to report him to his handler should he deviate from his directive. So, that leaves him with two options, although he’s still unsure what to do with those ones.

 _Sleep here if you need to,_ his handler had said, and the Asset eyes the couch in front of him. It’s padded like the bed in med-bay and he imagines that it will probably be more… comfortable than the cot he’s used to… But he isn’t sure what to do with the order. He doesn’t exactly _need_ to sleep right now, he’d slept fairly recently, and he doesn’t want to risk sleeping now and cancelling out his three hours for the rest of the day.

That leaves showering, but his handler had been ambiguous about that as well. _If you require a shower,_ he’d said, and the Asset isn’t exactly sure what counts as _required_ here. He still has time left between his Hydra mandated showers, so _technically_ he doesn’t need a shower until then.

He swallows uneasily and flicks his eyes over to the bathroom door as he thinks. _This…this is probably a test_ , he realises suddenly, his shoulders stiffening. _Something to see whether I will overindulge if given the chance._

 _He_ is _letting me stay in his quarters,_ he reminds himself sternly. _He probably wants to make sure I will behave_. In that case… He draws himself and stands at attention beside the couch. He will prove to his handler that he can be trusted. His eyes flicker to the half-open door and he relaxes as he settles in to wait.

He is good at waiting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the previous story, Steve had been trying his best to give Bucky orders that he could understand, but now we can see that even those were confusing. 
> 
> By the way, if you haven't read the other story, feel free to ask me which chapters of this story correspond to the other one if you feel like you're missing something.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset continues to learn about his new base.

He blinks back into focus when the door to his handler’s room swings open and the man himself exits, his hair sticking up at weird angles and a tired expression on his face. The Asset scans him as he exits, remembering how Stark and Wilson had both insisted that he sleep, before flicking his eyes away and waiting for his next orders.

Hopefully his handler approves of how he’d complied with the last set of orders he’d received. He hadn’t known what to do with them exactly, and there is a very real possibility that he’d misinterpreted them completely, which isn’t _allowed_ —

“I’m going to make supper,” his handler announces quietly, breaking into his train of thought. “You can come if you want.”

The Asset blinks at him as he disappears into the kitchen and a fresh wave of uncertainty washes over him. Should he go or not? He doesn’t— He scowls slightly, his jaw clenching as he clasps his hands tighter behind his back. He _hates_ confusing orders, they always leave far too much to chance, and more often than not he ends up paying the price for them.

 _I will wait here_ , he decides firmly, choosing to err on the side of caution. Right now, it’s better to prove that he is compliant to his programming rather than accidentally break any rules.

That sentiment lasts for all of five minutes before a sudden whining _growl_ cuts through the air and his head jerks towards the kitchen. His heart jolts painfully at the unknown sound and he finds himself moving towards the other room before he even has a chance to think.

He has half-a-second to curse the fact that he hadn’t even paused long enough to grab a _weapon—_ but the rest of him is intent on getting to the kitchen as fast as humanly possible because his handler is in danger and _he’s always getting himself into trouble—_

He lurches to a stop in the doorway, his heart pounding and his eyes wide as he scans the kitchen. His handler has his back to him and doesn’t seem to be hurt but _something_ had made that noise and he still isn’t sure _what_ —

His handler turns around and freezes at the sight of him, his hand climbing up to press against his chest for a moment as he sucks in a breath and scans the room around him. His eyes land on some kind of appliance next to him, its glass jar filled with something vaguely purple, and his shoulders drop.

“Sorry,” he says, and the Asset’s brain stalls for a second because his handler is apologizing to _him_ — “I should have warned you,” he continues gesturing at the appliance. “This is a blender; it cuts up food really fine so that you can drink it. But it makes a pretty loud noise.”

The Asset stares at the ‘blender’ for a moment before sweeping the kitchen again, relaxing slightly when no other threat crops up. His handler breathes out and seems to relax as well before shifting back towards the blender.

“I’m making a frozen fruit smoothie,” he says, every word but ‘frozen’ almost meaningless to him as he watches his handler navigate the kitchen and explain how to make a ‘smoothie’. “I’ll just add some milk and some more fruit,” he says carefully. “Then I’ll turn it on.”

He grabs a plastic bag from the counter and shakes what the Asset presumes must be ‘fruit’ of some kind into the glass jar before covering the opening with a lid and pressing a button labeled ‘start’. The same whining groan from before fills the air and the Asset tenses again at the unfamiliar sound. His handler doesn’t seem concerned though and he soon leaves the smoothie to check the ‘soup’ on the stove.

The soup seems to be done because his handler turns off the stove and begins setting the counter next to him, which, judging from the chairs around it, seems to function as both a counter and a dinner table.

“We’ll eat here,” his handler tells him once he’s set the table with two of everything and the Asset abruptly realises that he’s going to be eating _with_ his handler. He blinks and stares as his handler grabs the food and gestures towards a chair across from him. “You can sit there.”

He complies, because of course he does, but his brain feels like it’s swimming through molasses as he tries to process the fact that he’s going to be eating the _same food as his handler_. He doesn’t— he’s never—

He stares as his handler portions out the food. The soup is red and steams in the bowl his handler places in front of him. He breathes in through his nose and it… actually smells. His stomach seems to wake up with his nose as he inhales again, leaning forward slightly as he does so. He can’t quite place the smell – which isn’t surprising – and his mind is still reeling from the fact that he’s actually going to be _eating_ the food portioned out for him. He’s never—

His handler nods at him to start eating and he complies, carefully copying how he uses his spoon to eat the soup. The spoon fits into his hand naturally, like he’s used it a million times before and the soup tastes— the soup _tastes_.

His hand clenches on his knee as he eats and he’s grateful that the counter is high enough to hide his reaction. He fights to keep his face blank as he reaches out to taste his smoothie, but inside it feels as though fireworks are going off over his tongue.

A sudden wave of gratitude for his handler— for giving him this, for letting him eat his food— rolls through him and he doesn’t care if he has to go back to eating regular rations for the rest of his life after this. If he can just remember this, remember this day, it will be enough.

He finishes his bowl of soup and his handler refills it. And then refills it again. And then again.

They eventually finish the whole pot of soup and the Asset’s stomach is pleasantly warm for the first time since he can remember. His handler carries all the dishes to the sink and begins filling it with water while the Asset stands and watches uneasily by his chair, trying to decide if he has any outstanding orders right now or if he should just go back to the living room. Or maybe he should just stand here—

“Why don’t you dry the dishes while I wash?” Handler-Rogers says suddenly, pointing to a towel hanging off the handle of the oven door. “I’ll show you where things go.”

He eyes the towel warily for a moment before deciding that the suggestion is close enough to an order to count and he grabs it, moving over instinctively to stand by the drain rack.

“You just have to wipe off all the water and then put the dish away,” his handler tells him, and he very quickly finds it best to hold the towel in his left hand and grab the dishes with his right. The metal of his hand is slippery on the wet glass and he thinks dropping a dish right now would probably be very bad.

The task isn’t hard though and standing beside his handler as he gives him quiet instructions for the placement of each dishware actually seems to ease something tight inside his chest.

— _he’s standing next to a woman, her face and hands flushed thanks to the hot water in the sink and she’s smiling down at him with eyes that he can’t quite_ see— 

He blinks and his hand tightens slightly around his current glass as he mentally scolds himself. He has to be careful. If he doesn’t have wiping protocols, he needs to be careful not to malfunction. He scowls slightly and deliberately zeros in on drying the glass thoroughly and putting it away meticulously, his jaw clenched as he focuses intently on the task in front of him. He will be careful.

Dishes are over soon enough, and he follows his handler back into the living room with a lingering sense of unease. His eyes flicker over the room and he shifts, clasping his hands behind his back as he stands at attention, unsure what to do. It feels weird and slightly awkward being around someone for so long during his downtime, since he’s used to being left alone or put back in cryofreeze after his missions.

“JARVIS.” His handler glances at the ceiling before sweeping his eyes over the couch in front of them. “Is there extra bedding we can use somewhere?”

JARVIS confirms there is, although the Asset isn’t quite sure what they need it for. He doesn’t have much time to wonder though, because his handler soon turns to look back at him.

“Did you take a shower?” he asks quietly and the Asset’s breath stutters in his chest at the question, his eyes widening slightly as his mind flashes back to his handler’s confusing orders. Had he been supposed to take a shower? He hadn’t wanted to risk it in case it had been a test, but maybe his handler had been testing how well he could follow _implied orders_. In that case he’d failed completely.

“Negative,” he replies tensely with a shake of his head, the world blurring slightly as he tries to breathe.

“That’s okay.”

He blinks, and when he dares to glance over at his handler, he doesn’t look mad, instead he almost looks… well, to be honest, he looks like he’s trying to keep his face blank, which is rather confusing. “Do you know how?” he asks evenly.

He opens his mouth to respond and closes it again. He… doesn’t actually know if he knows. Back at the Vault he had been fine on his own, he’d known the rules there, and usually he didn’t have to worry unless there was something stuck in the grooves of his arm or the agents waiting for him were the impatient type.

Here though… “Unknown,” he says finally, shifting to stand a little straighter, hoping that his response is satisfactory enough for Handler-Rogers.

“Okay,” his handler says carefully, his face continually blank as his hands press into his legs. “I’ll show you how.”

His handler leads them gingerly over to the bathroom and flicks on the light, the white tiles of the room strikingly different from anything he’s used to. “When you take a shower,” his handler starts, and the Asset pulls his eyes away from the bright backsplash to focus on his words. “Make sure you pull this curtain all the way across.”

He motions to a pale beige shower curtain before tapping the shower faucet. This, the Asset knows, although there seems to be more taps then he’s used to. “Turn this on and pull this lever if you want a shower,” his handler explains, demonstrating with one hand as he talks. Water jets out of the showerhead and sprays down into the tub for a second before he turns it off again. “This tap is for hot water, and this one is for cold,” he says, touching each tap in turn.

He then goes on to explain the various soaps and where to put his towel afterwards, but the Asset can’t stop thinking about the two taps in the shower. The shower at the Vault had only used cold water and he’s never… is he supposed to use hot water now?

“Most people take showers every two to three days,” his handler explains once they’re done and the Asset is very careful to file that bit of information away, since the number is a lot more frequent than he’s used to. “You can, of course, take them whenever you want,” his handler continues, and he slides that semi-order into his growing pile of ambiguous instructions. “I’d recommend having one at least every three days.”

That, at least, is more straight forward and he makes a mental note to shower at least once every three days, hoping that that will somehow go towards fulfilling his current mission. _Live in Avengers Tower, what does that even—_

“Okay,” his handler says, rubbing his hands together and looking around the room. “I’ll take the first shower, and then you can have it, and we’ll make up your bed once the bedding arrives.”

The Asset nods and blinks a little as he leaves the room. Apparently, the bedding is for _him._

His handler’s shower doesn’t take long, although it does take longer than his own. Not that he’s going to fault him on that, these _are_ his rooms after all. For his part though, the Asset is determined not to take longer than he usually does at the Vault. He’s not really sure if he has a time limit here, and he’d rather not find out the hard way.

It takes him far too long to decide whether or not he should use the hot water though. Handler-Rogers _had_ shown him both, and he hadn’t mentioned not being allowed to use them… but maybe this too is a test to see what he will do. In the end, he decides against it, opting for his usual cold shower and hurrying to finish up in time.

His handler’s shampoo is a 2 in 1 shampoo and conditioner and smells like ‘Irish Spring’, whatever that is. He wets his hair and squirts a tiny amount out onto his hand, his thumb rubbing away a stray water droplet over the word ‘Irish’ on the bottle. His brow furls, the spray of the shower momentarily forgotten as he stares at the word. Something about it seems familiar, but he doesn’t know why. For whatever reason, it seems rather appropriate that his handler’s shampoo smells like it though.

Once he’s finished his shower, he dries himself quickly, running the towel through his hair a few times before hanging it up. His hair is still a little wet and drips onto his shirt as he gets dressed, but his time is running out and he doesn’t want to take longer in the shower than he already has, so he leaves it be.

His handler is waiting for him by the couch when he comes out, a pile of bedding at his side. He seems to scan him as he exits and the Asset wonders briefly if he’s maybe somehow taken too long despite his best efforts.

“Do you need a brush?” his handler finally asks, and the question is so far from what he’d been expecting and also using pesky indefinable words like ‘need’ again, that he just stares at him, unsure how to respond.

His handler’s lips press together, causing a spark of dread to shoot through his stomach, but all he does is edge past him back into the bathroom and exit a moment later with a brush in hand. “You can use this,” he says evenly, holding it out. “Do you know how?”

He does. He doesn’t quite remember when he learned, but he has apparently, so he nods and reaches out carefully for the proffered brush. His fingers graze his handler’s palm as he grabs it and the touch sends tingles running up and down his arm. He… he hasn’t _touched_ anyone in…

His handler leaves him to brush his hair and he complies as quickly as possible. The bristles run through his hair smoother than usual, and once he’s done, he’s left at a loss with what to do with the brush. Eventually, he simply decides to hold onto it and wait. His handler has yet to get mad at him for waiting, so that’s probably a safe option.

His handler returns from his room in looser, softer looking clothes and the Asset flicks his eyes over him a little nervously as he pauses to look at him, hoping to have complied properly. “You can put that back in the bathroom,” is all Handler-Rogers says, his voice slightly strained and a strange look in his eye.

He complies immediately and breathes in carefully once inside the relative privacy of the bathroom. He doesn’t know where the brush _goes_ exactly, so he sets it on the counter, hoping quietly that that will be enough for his handler. So far… so far, his handler has been the most understanding handler he’s ever had, but he’s still a little lost in this new environment and he really _really_ doesn’t want to fail his handler.

He blinks at himself in the mirror for a second, a flare of alarm rushing through him as he consciously recognises the… the _want_ for the first time.

 _It’s fine_ , he reasons determinedly with himself, his hands curling into fists and his jaw clenching in the mirror. _It won’t interfere with my mission, it… it will_ help _with my mission, it’s not… I’m not compromised._

That decided, he sets his jaw and exits the bathroom. His handler is still waiting for him in the living room and he motions to the couch and pile of bedding. “You will sleep here for now,” he orders and the Asset steps closer to better receive instruction. “I’ll show you how to make up the bed,” Handler-Rogers continues, unfolding the bedding a little as he speaks. “In the mornings you can fold it up and put it by the wall until nighttime.”

He nods along as his handler begins to show him the various pieces of his bedding. Apparently, he now has a sheet _and_ a pillow _and_ a blanket which is much more than he’s ever had before, but he’s not about to complain. “I know you are trained to go without sleep,” his handler says afterward, looking up at him. “But now I want you to try to get at least three hours of sleep a night.”

He _almost_ tilts his head in confusion at that because it still feels weird to be allowed so much regular sleep, but he manages to stop himself in time. “Confirmed,” he says simply.

His handler offers him a small tight smile and breathes in. “You won’t be punished if you sleep more or less than that number,” he reassures, and the Asset’s brain nearly stalls at the guarantee. “But three to five hours is a good number to aim for,” he finishes, and the Asset nods back a little numbly.

Three to five…? He files that away with the rest of his mission information and watches silently as his handler excuses himself to go to bed. “Let me know if you need anything,” he says, as he leaves his door half-open again.

The Asset watches him leave and blinks slowly, staring at the darkened doorway, his brain spinning slightly at the sheer _enormity_ of changes that this day has brought. He’d both complied with and ignored orders today but had been punished for nothing. Instead he’d been given a new mission, new clothes and a new base of operations.

His mind feels exhausted, his programming sluggish at all the new information he’s gathered, and he steps over to sink carefully down onto the couch. The cushions compress under him as he sits, and the blanket and pillow feel strangely soft and smooth under his hand.

He reaches down to undo the laces of his boots automatically, only to immediately pause and stare ahead of himself in confusion. Normally he leaves his boots on, since it was easier to be prepared for anything that way but… but then he would get the blanket _dirty_ , and that wouldn’t be _polite_.

His eyes unfocus a little and he’s too tired to try and figure out where _that_ bit of programming had come from, but it doesn’t really matter because his boots slide off easily and his head sinks into the pillow as he lays down. He already feels half-asleep as he reaches down to pull the blanket over his shoulders and it settles over him gently, his eyes closing at the warmth that envelops him.

He hasn’t gone to sleep warm in… in years.

oOo

He wakes and it’s still dark in the room. The couch is soft and comfortable under him, but the longer he lays there the more a restless energy seems to fill his bones and a tightness grabs at his chest. If he’s awake, he should be alert and ready at all times, his handler can come out at any moment after all—

He pushes the blanket back and sits up, swinging his feet down to rest on the floor. There’s a clock on the TV stand in front of him that lets him know it’s around 3 o’clock, and the simple act of _knowing what time it is_ is so foreign that for a second he just stares at it _._ He blinks, and then blinks away the faint after-images of the numbers, glancing around the darkened room as he tries to figure out what to do next.

Normally in his cell, he just waits. There’s never anything else to do and he always has to be ready in case his handler comes to get him for another mission. Here though, the room is so much _bigger_ and he _knows_ where his handler is. He will be able to know right away if his handler comes for him, and… it’s kind of… relaxing to have that guarantee.

His eyes flick up to his handler’s room, the half-open door just barely visible in the dark. Almost without conscious thought, he finds himself standing and moving across the room, his socked feet dead silent as he nears the doorway.

He stops a few feet away, his heart pounding because he’s probably not supposed to be moving around (he’s in his _handler’s_ rooms after all), but he continues to stare at the door, his ears straining for… for _something_. It’s something _important,_ although he doesn’t exactly know _what_ he’s looking for until he hears it.

The sound reaches his ears and his eyes shutter closed for a second as his shoulders slump slightly in automatic relief. He breathes in, lowering himself to sit on the floor by the door and leaning his head back against the wall as the quiet, steady breaths of his handler washes over him.

The breathing is Important. He doesn’t know why exactly, but it _is,_ and he finds his eyes slipping closed again as he listens, his pulse slowing down as he relaxes. The floor is hard, although carpeted, and it isn’t as warm as the couch with his blankets but… everything about him seems to slow down and click into place as he listens to his handler breathing and the thought of moving away is so undesirable that he doesn’t even consider it. 

He’s aware, on some level, that JARVIS will probably report his activity to his handler come morning, and _that_ will mostly likely result in a punishment of _some_ sort but… His handler breathes in deeply behind him and the sound is _good_ and he finds that he doesn’t really mind.

oOo

JARVIS doesn’t report his behavior.

He’s waiting for it, even though he’s done his best not to get caught. As soon as the faintest hints of light begin to brighten the morning sky, he leaves his spot by the door, his motions smooth and silent as he puts his shoes back on and folds up his bedding by the wall. By the time his handler exits his room, he’s ready, his back stiff and straight as he stands at attention.

Of course, he is under no illusions that this will help much. He’s certain that he’d overstepped last night, and he knows that JARVIS monitors the tower, so he’s prepared to accept whatever punishment his handler sees fit for his actions.

But JARVIS doesn’t say anything.

He waits for it. He waits for it as his handler makes them another smoothie for breakfast (it tastes just as flavourful as last night) and as he drinks it, he’s _certain_ that JARVIS will speak up. _Surely,_ he doesn’t deserve food like this after everything. _Surely_ it will be taken away, replaced once again with normal rations to remind him of his place and function. 

Still, JARVIS doesn’t say anything, and he’s so distracted by it that he doesn’t even have time to overthink as he gets up instinctively to help dry the dishes after breakfast. The towel is already in his hand before he stops to wonder if he should have waited for orders.

His handler doesn’t say anything though, and after a few minutes he relaxes, his mind free to turn over his dilemma with JARVIS.

 _JARVIS_ _cannot reveal anything personal about anyone unless given explicit permission or if someone is considered to be in danger._ That is what his handler had said yesterday when he had introduced the two of them. But he hadn’t… he hadn’t really thought that that counted for _him_. He blinks and carefully reaches for the next glass to dry. Maybe… maybe he _won’t_ be punished for last night.

Or… _or,_ maybe he hadn’t even broken any rules in the first place. 

_You can go anywhere in these rooms freely_ , his handler had said and he contemplates the words as he carefully sets the cup aside and starts to dry the glass jar from the blender. He hadn’t really known what to think of those liberal instructions before, but maybe… maybe they’re true.

His eyes narrow slightly as he thinks, and he files the problem away for further thought. It could all be a test of course, and he might find his punishment still forthcoming… But still… he will have to… look into this.

For the mission. Of course. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is slowly slowly learning about his environment and questioning what he knows. Hopefully he can learn to trust JARVIS.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset is compliant and attends several meetings.

He doesn’t have much time to wonder about his strange orders or JARVIS’ silence because after breakfast his handler informs him that they have a meeting with the other Avengers.

“You don’t need to worry,” he reassures as they head into the elevator. “You aren’t being debriefed. You can just listen.”

Despite his handler’s words he can’t help being nervous as they enter and sit down on one side of the long table that fills the meeting room. Across from them, Stark seems to be working with the computer and he gives them nothing more than a brief glance as he types away.

Dr Banner and Wilson come in next, Banner sitting on his handler’s other side while Wilson goes to sit across from them, a few chairs away from Stark. Wilson and Banner he knows, so he doesn’t pay them much mind, but he tenses when a new man, blond with bags under his eyes, breezes in and sits across from him.

“Hey Cap,” he says, and the Asset relaxes slightly as he recognises him to be Agent Clint Barton, Hawkeye and Avenger and cleared as a non-hostile by his handler and JARVIS. “Heard you guys had something big go down.”

His handler replies and the Asset settles back, intending to go back to sitting at attention when Barton throws him an unexpected glance. “Cool arm, dude,” he says almost admiringly.

He freezes and stares at Barton, unsure of how to respond. He’s rarely ever directly addressed by agents unless he’s receiving orders, so Barton’s words leave him scrambling. Should he reply? If he does, what should he say? What if he gets it wrong?

Barton doesn’t seem to think too much of it, and he doesn’t seem to mind his lack of response, which is a relief. Instead he flashes him a small smile (which is also weird) and turns to comment something to Romanoff as she enters and sits next to him.

Relaxing slightly, the Asset scans everyone in the room reflexively before settling back again. His handler had said that he won’t be debriefed so he probably doesn’t need to focus _too_ hard— His line of thought gets cut off as Stark activates the screen at the front of the room and Target Nicholas Fury flickers into view.

His breath catches slightly as the man’s eye sweeps over them and he doesn’t hear the beginning of the meeting because he’s too busy staring at the SHIELD director. Sudden relief floods through his system and he fights to keep from showing it as he begins to breathe a bit more regularly.

He… he’d done it. He’d— he’d actually managed to complete his handler’s mission. He _hadn’t_ killed Fury. He breathes in carefully and focuses on a point on the wall to ground himself as he processes this new revelation. He’d _hoped._ He’d hoped that he hadn’t killed the man. But he hadn’t actually _known_ if he’d succeeded. There had been so many variables with that mission that he had had no way of knowing whether or not Fury had survived, and his handler hadn’t _said_ anything about it, so he hadn’t been _sure._

He tunes back in to see a strange video of what looks like his handler… fighting himself. He blinks, not quite sure what to make of what he’s seeing.

“So…” Dr Banner speaks up and he listens without turning his head. “What exactly are we looking at?”

Stark and his handler move on to explain, and he doesn’t understand everything they’re talking about, but apparently this strange… time-traveling version of his handler and Stark (and someone very small who they don’t know) is the reason they know that Hydra had infiltrated SHIELD.

He listens as Stark and his handler explain how they had in turn infiltrated Hydra and he realises… his handler had never—he’d never actually _been_ Hydra. This whole time he’d been _pretending_. He blinks at his spot on the wall and something in him relaxes slightly. That… that makes sense.

His handler had always been tense around the other Hydra agents, and all of the sudden, his contradictory orders make a lot more sense. Of _course_ he’d told him not to kill Fury, Fury is his _boss_.

Of course, that means that none of the other Avengers are Hydra either and that… that is good. Some of the tension in his shoulders eases slightly as he consciously realises that he will never have to go back to Hydra now. He can stay with this new handler in Avengers’ Tower and figure out the rules and he won’t— he won’t have to help Hydra anymore.

And that— that’s _good_.

Around him, his handler and the Avengers discuss raiding various Hydra bases and he eyes the map they’ve projected onto the wall of all the bases they know about. His eyes linger for a second on the one in Siberia before he jerks his gaze away and swallows, trying to keep his heart from pounding. He focuses down on the metal of his left hand and breathes in carefully.

“This is not going to be a short mission.” He hears Stark say and he refocuses back on the spot on the wall, letting his eyes blur so to avoid looking at the map. Beside him, his handler tenses, and he has a split-second moment of panic, certain that he’s somehow done something wrong with how agitated he’s being.

Handler-Rogers doesn’t say anything to him though, instead turning to the rest of the group. “I can’t… I can’t go with you,” he says a little hollowly.

The Asset can feel the shock at his handler’s words radiate through the room and he can feel his own confusion rise a little. He doesn’t know why, but for some reason, part of him expects his handler to be on the front lines against Hydra. Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen? Isn’t that what he does—

— _his foot slips in the mud and he almost falls forward. He stumbles, his hands tightening instinctively on his gun as he catches himself and looks up, waiting for ----- to give the signal—_

“I’m sure Cap would love to be on the front lines of this,” Stark says, his words rocketing him back into reality. “But he’s got a different mission, don’t you?”

His handler nods and looks over at him, and the Asset stills, hoping that he hasn’t noticed his slight malfunction. “I know this isn’t the best time for me to sit out…” his handler says, looking back towards the group. “But I think I’m needed here more.”

The Asset relaxes slowly as he contemplates his handler’s words. His handler needs to be here… oh. Oh of course. Something inside him eases as he figures out what’s going on. If the Avengers aren’t Hydra, then it stands to reason that he will need to be retrained. He’d gone through something similar when he’d been transferred to America and it makes sense that the Avengers would want to make sure that he’s programmed properly now that they have him.

He blinks away his realisation as he becomes aware of Agent Barton gesturing towards him and looking at his handler for guidance. Handler-Rogers sighs and clenches his jaw. “Bucky has been in Hydra’s custody since the 40s,” he starts, and the Asset dissociates so fast he almost gets vertigo. He knows it’s logical for his handler to debrief his allies on their new asset, but he really _really_ doesn’t want to think about his time with Hydra.

Pain, both real and imagined, pulses through his shoulder and he swallows, fixing his eyes more determinedly on the wall in front of him and letting his handler’s words morph into empty sounds in his ears. His time with Hydra doesn’t matter anymore. He will be compliant here. His handler had said that cryofreeze and wiping protocols are suspended indefinitely and so far, his handler has yet to break any promises so he will be fine and—

He gradually refocuses and becomes aware of a new conversation between his handler and Wilson.

“This won’t exactly be a short mission Sam,” his handler says. “I can’t guarantee you’ll make it home.”

Across from him, Wilson’s face hardens, and he gives a determined nod. “I know what I’m getting into,” he says almost darkly. “And I know the kinds of things Hydra’s done.” His fingers tighten slightly on his folded arms and he straightens his shoulders. “I’ll just need a few days to get my things in order and then I’ll be ready to go.”

Everyone turns to his handler for his verdict and after a few moments he nods. “We’ll be happy to have you then,” he says.

Stark jumps in with an offer to upgrade Wilson’s jetpack and—

— _a man with brown hair: “If you just let me have it for a few days, I’m sure I could come up with something better–”—_

His tongue presses into the roof of his mouth as the Avengers move on to planning their next Hydra raid. Since he won’t be being used, he zones out. He’s already had two malfunctions in just one meeting, and he really can’t afford that sort of thing. 

The meeting wraps up and he blinks, refocusing his eyes without moving as he waits for his handler to stand up.

“Bruce, I was hoping I could have a word with you?” he says instead, turning towards the doctor as the rest of the Avengers slowly file out of the room. At the front of the room, Stark shuts down the screen, nodding his head a little at Handler-Rogers as he leaves, and Dr Banner offers to hear his handler’s request in the newfound privacy.

“I know you’re not officially a doctor,” he starts and the Asset fights not to tense at the loaded word. His arm gives a twinge of pain and he stares harder at his wall.

“What do you need?” Dr Banner asks.

Beside him, his handler lets out a sigh and seems to slump slightly. “Bucky needs a doctor to make sure he’s healthy,” he says, and the Asset becomes aware of his teeth digging into his tongue as the world seems to blur slightly around the edges.

 _Do not react, do not react, do_ not _react_ —

“I also want to start getting him to eat solid foods,” his handler continues, oblivious to his internal conflict. “But I’m not exactly sure how to do that.”

Thankfully, Dr Banner doesn’t suggest any sort of testing or programming right away. He seems to want to find a specialist doctor first and the Asset can’t help relaxing a little at the knowledge that he won’t be going through a medical check-up right away. He knows it’s unavoidable but…

His handler seems satisfied with Dr Banner’s response, which is _also_ good, and he stands up smiling. The Asset stands up as well, following him dutifully out of the room and flexing his tongue in his mouth as he walks, rubbing away the indentations his teeth have left behind.

After the meeting, his handler gives him his promised tour of the Tower. “You can go to any of these public rooms without permission,” he says as he shows him the gym, and the Asset files that bit of information away with a lingering amount of skepticism as he eyes the gym equipment. The room looks better stocked than anything he’d had at the Vault and he wonders when he will begin training there. “If you want to talk to any of the Avengers specifically, you can ask JARVIS to call them,” his handler finishes.

“Confirmed,” he replies easily, although he’s not sure why he’d ever want to call an agent or Avenger _to_ him. Usually that sort of thing is the other way around.

“Tony’s labs are in the basement,” his handler tells him almost conversationally as they head to the large living room from yesterday (the common room apparently.) Wilson and Agent Barton are already there, lounging on the couches by the TV, neither of them looking up as they enter. “Ask him or JARVIS if you want to go in there,” his handler continues. “Sometimes he’s got sensitive projects running, so he doesn’t like people just wandering in.”

The Asset files that information away along with everything else he’s learned about this new place as his handler leads him over to the kitchen side of the room. He catches sight of the time on— on the— he narrows his eyes for a second before he remembers— on the microwave (he’s not sure when he’d learned about those, but he must have been debriefed on them at some point), and he realises with a start that it’s already noon.

His handler leaves him by the counter and heads over to the large fridge, his face and posture seeming to tighten as he pulls out a bag and carton from the freezer. The Asset is busy trying to analyse that look when Wilson drifts over and plants himself next to his handler’s elbow.

“I didn’t take you for the type to eat sweets for lunch,” he says, a light smile on his face. His handler’s response is just as relaxed, but the Asset is distracted away from it as, next to him, Barton sides up and _climbs on top of the counter_.

He sits there, crouched, his eyes fixed on Handler-Rogers hands, and the behavior is so abnormal that the Asset can’t help staring at him. Why is he…?

His handler catches sight of Barton too as he pulls out the, by now, familiar blender from a cupboard, and he gives him an appraising look.

“I heard there was ice cream,” Barton says, his eyes wide and his voice a little hollow as he stares at the carton on the counter.

“Feet off the table,” his handler orders, seemingly unfazed. Behind him, Wilson tries to steal the ‘ice cream’ (whatever that is) and Handler-Rogers grabs it away from him without even looking. “I get first dibs,” he says as he grabs what looks like an extra deep spoon from a drawer. “You two can fight it out amongst yourselves after.”

The Asset tenses slightly at the word ‘fight’ and he watches with an air of apprehension as Wilson and Barton scramble to the cupboard for bowls. Unlike some bases he’d worked in, the Avengers hierarchy seems pretty stable, and he hadn’t been expecting there to be any infighting here. But, he realises with growing unease, Wilson _is_ a new member, so he might still have to assert himself within that hierarchy.

 _Handler-Rogers has accepted him into the group though_ , he reasons, tension swirling in his stomach as his handler scoops out several lumps of ice cream into the blender. _So that is a point in his favour_.

His handler doesn’t seem like the kind of leader who would look the other way for infighting. Of course, the Asset knows that infighting can be useful in making sure that one’s subordinates aren’t able to grow powerful enough to become a challenge, but… somehow, he feels that his handler doesn’t have to stoop to that level in order to secure his place as team leader.

“It’s a good thing we’re not allergic to milk,” his handler says, and the comment is so far from anything he’d been thinking that he has no idea how to respond. Instead he watches quietly as his handler hands off the desired carton of ice cream to Wilson (he relaxes slightly at the sight, because of _course_ his handler would favour Wilson right now and help solidify his place within the team, he shouldn’t have worried) and continues to prepare their meal.

The blender whirls again and his handler soon hands him his smoothie. This one is more orange than the other two had been, and he sips it as slowly as he dares while his handler begins preparing something else.

He narrows his eyes at the new food because he _knows_ what it is called, he just can’t quite— his hand tightens slightly on his glass and he takes in each ingredient individually. Two slices of bread, butter and something yellow on both and two pieces of meat—

— _to make a bacon and peanut butter sandwich, but bacon is expensive so maybe he should—_

He freezes and breathes in carefully, thankful that his handler is too busy eating his— his _sandwich_ to notice his most recent malfunction. 

_Although,_ a small corner of his mind whispers as he sips determinedly at his smoothie. _Is it really a malfunction if it helps me remember a word?_

 _(What is bacon?)_ a smaller, even quieter part of his mind wonders.

He doesn’t have an answer for either of those questions, so he ignores them, instead focusing on drinking his smoothie and locating a towel for dishes. He spies one hanging on the handle of the cupboard under the sink, and once it looks like his handler is finished with his food, he stands up, setting his glass in the sink and grabbing the towel before standing aside and waiting for his handler to start the water.

He doesn’t know where things go in this new kitchen (and he hadn’t been paying _attention_ when his handler had been making the food _stupid stupid stupid_ ) but Handler-Rogers doesn’t seem to mind telling him where to put things as he dries.

“The bowls go in the cupboard on the left.”

His hand stills as, behind him, Barton speaks up around a mouthful of ice cream. His pulse spikes as his eyes dart to his handler, unsure if he should respond. Is he expected to only follow orders from his handler, or should he differ to the other Avengers? Is Barton overstepping or—

His handler gives him an assenting nod and he relaxes slightly, putting the bowl away and picking up a butter knife.

“That goes in the drawer by the stove,” Barton says, and he complies faster this time. They continue like that for the rest of the dishes (at one point Wilson sneaks his empty bowl and spoon into the dishwater and his handler doesn’t reprimand him, instead rolling his eyes and washing them along with everything else.)

“Cap likes to do them by hand,” Barton informs him as they’re finishing the last of the dishes. “Donno why he can’t use the dishwasher.”

The Asset is pretty sure he’s never used a dishwasher either, so he isn’t exactly sure what to say to that. He stays silent and no one seems to mind.

Barton isn’t finished with his ice cream before they’re done dishes and once they’re done, Wilson comes up to his handler (he jerks when Wilson touches his arm and the Asset narrows his eyes slightly before determining that there isn’t any threat.) “I was wondering if I could talk to you for a second,” Wilson says, gesturing towards the living room.

“Oh,” his handler casts a quick glance in his direction. “Sure?”

Wilson smiles at that before looking over at him. “Can you just wait here for a second?” he asks and the Asset tenses, darting his eyes over towards his handler. His heartrate speeds up because he doesn’t know the procedure here. He’d followed Barton’s directive before, so if he doesn’t follow Wilson’s, then he might accidently mess up the man’s integration into the team hierarchy, but if he acts outside of his handler’s orders then that might _also_ be bad—

His handler’s expression looks carefully blank as he gives him a nod. “You can wait here,” he says quietly, and the Asset relaxes, letting himself zone out slightly as Wilson and his handler step away towards the couches.

They’re too far away for him to hear much of what they’re saying (and he shouldn’t listen in anyway because that’s not his _job_ —)

“Hey.”

He blinks and turns his head slightly to divide his attention between his handler and Barton. Beside him, Barton is looking down at his bowl, fiddling slightly with the melted remains of his ice cream.

He flicks his eyes up to his for a second before looking back down. “So…” He stirs his spoon around in his bowl and his free hand clenches into a lose fist on his knee. “So… so, ah, geez.” He runs a hand through his hair and glances up at him. “So, I don’t really know how to say this but…” He presses his lips together and the Asset tenses slightly, trying to decide if he’s done something wrong in the last few minutes.

“I just… I thought— I though I should say, well, I’ve been where you are,” Barton says, his eyes scanning him. “At least a little and…” He breathes in and presses his lips together. “It’s not your fault, okay?” The Asset’s brow furls slightly, and Barton sighs, looking down. “I don’t know if you’re ready to figure this out yet,” he says quietly. “But those things you did, under Hydra? That’s not your fault.”

He fiddles with his spoon and glances over to where Handler-Rogers is sitting before looking back over at him. “I don’t really know what you’re going through,” he says quietly. “But I do know what it’s like to hurt people and to have no choice about it…” He shrugs and looks away. “It took me a while, but I came to terms with the fact that it wasn’t my fault.” His hand tightens on his spoon and he offers him a small smile. “And I just… I think you’ll be able to do that too, one day.”

The Asset stares at him, completely at a loss. He doesn’t… he doesn’t understand. He knows he’s hurt people for Hydra but— but that hadn’t been _bad_. That had been what he’d been _supposed_ to do. That is his _job_ — He— Of _course_ it had been the right thing to do, he was supposed to follow Hydra’s orders. Disobeying is _wrong ~~not allowed~~_ —

Irritation at this unnecessary confusion bubbles up in his chest and he jerks his eyes away from Barton, intent on waiting for his handler _like he’s supposed to._

His handler comes back soon enough, and he gestures for him to follow as he heads towards the elevator. He complies and his hands tighten determinedly behind his back as he steps into place behind Handler-Rogers’ left shoulder.

He is a good asset. He obeys his handlers. He follows orders. He is obedient—

“Tony can take a look at your arm now,” his handler tells him as the elevator doors close and his stomach drops down into his toes.

oOo

The knuckles of his right hand are probably white behind his back as he stands stiffly behind his handler in the elevator, his stomach churning. The pain in his shoulder seems to grow with every level they descend, and he fights to keep his breathing and pulse even as he tries not to think about his upcoming maintenance.

He can do this. He _can do this_. He’s done this a million times before. Maintenance is necessary, and just because his handler has suspended the wiping and cryofreeze protocols doesn’t mean that— doesn’t mean that—

Nausea swirls in his stomach as the elevator doors ding open and he steps out after his handler. He swallows and blinks away a dizzy spell as he stops behind his handler, his right hand sweaty and slippery against the metal of his left.

Stark approaches them and offers him a tight smile, gesturing towards a low padded stool sitting next to a table. “I’m just going to take a look today,” he says. “See what we’re dealing with.”

His heartbeat speeds up without his consent and he fights to keep his breathing under control as he looks over at his handler, hoping against hope that maybe _this_ time he will cancel out the other’s order, that this time he will give him a different order, _any_ other order.

Something sharp and pained flashes in his handler’s eyes and his throat flexes as he swallows. “It’s okay Buck,” he says faintly. “You’re not in trouble, Tony’s just going to look.”

His heart spasms in his chest and he darts his eyes desperately around the room before stopping to rest again on his handler. His teeth clench as he forces himself to march over to the chair, his movements stiff and stilted as he lowers himself down. His shoulder gives a twinge of pain as he raises his left arm and rests it on the table beside him and his eyes unfocus as he settles back and tries to zone out.

Stark edges towards him and for some reason he offers him a small smile. “Just hold still and you should be fine,” he says. “Let me know if anything hurts.” He tries not to tense at the order because he’s supposed to hold still, but he _hates_ pain-endurance tests. His stomach clenches and he tries to breathe.

Hold still, hold still, hold still—

“Level of acceptable pain, zero.”

He blinks.

…what?

He…what?

He doesn’t understand that order. He shifts and glances up at his handler, trying to figure out what he wants. Level of acceptable pain zero…? Is he talking about during the tests or in general? If it’s in general, then… then he’s failing at that. His shoulder takes the opportunity to flare up and remind him that it _always_ hurts. Low level pain _is_ acceptable because… because that’s how it _is._

But— his heartbeat speeds up again. But, if he doesn’t report it to his handler then he’ll be disobeying _orders_ — He darts his eyes up frantically and catches his handler’s eye for a second before ducking his head back down and staring determinedly into his lap.

“…current pain, level two,” he admits reluctantly, hoping that he isn’t misinterpreting his orders.

In front of him, his handler and Stark seem to freeze, and he tenses because maybe he’d been wrong, maybe he shouldn’t have—

“So…” Stark starts. “You’re saying, ‘level two’ pain… is normal for you?” The Asset swallows, sweat dripping down his armpit as he sits, Stark’s words barely audible over the pounding of his own heart. 

“Affirmative,” he replies tightly, his eyes focused intently on his lap, part of him wishing desperately that he could be _somewhere else_ right now.

Stark sucks in a sharp breath and turns towards his handler. “Chronic pain, probably,” he says stiffly. “Wouldn’t be surprised. JARVIS can you pull up the scans that you did earlier?”

“Certainly Sir,” JARVIS replies, and he’s too busy focusing on his lap to see what they’re doing. His heartbeat fills the silence for him as his handler and Stark presumably look over his scans.

“Yeah,” Stark says after a moment and he tries not to flinch. “You can see how the weight of it is pulling him down. It’s stressing his muscles and his frame because of how heavy it is and how it’s attached.”

“Can you fix it?” his handler asks, and the Asset becomes aware of how hard his right hand is pressing down onto his knee. He rubs his thumb slightly against the soft fabric as he works on holding _very_ still and breathing steadily. Stark and his handler seem to think something is wrong with his arm, but he doesn’t understand why, since it’s never been a problem before.

Apparently, it is one now.

“Not easily,” Stark replies. “I’d likely have to replace the whole thing—”

He misses whatever else Stark says. His words getting drowned out as a sudden rushing fills his ears and for a second he’s—

— _on the bed, painpainpain in his shoulder and something cold flowing into his veins. The world goes blurry and his vision spins, but he can still feel it when they—_

_—awake again, the light’s too bright in his eyes, the pain in his shoulder pulsing – but he can’t feel his fingers and whatdidtheydo—_

He blinks and the fingernails of his right hand dig into his knee as he tries to centre himself. The air in his lungs feels thin an inadequate as he tries to breathe in quietly and keep his breakdown from being noticeable. He consciously unclenches the fist of his left hand and subtly scans his surroundings.

His handler and Stark have both moved over to a computer terminal several feet away and he feels a wave of relief at the knowledge that they might have missed out on his reaction to Stark’s words. He mentally flinches away from the reminder and bites his tongue as he tries to get himself under control again.

He settles back and loosens his shoulders, desperately trying to zone out enough that he can be relaxed for Stark’s tests. He’s already malfunctioned so much today; he _needs_ to get this right.

His handler and Stark come back eventually, and by then he’s mostly over the malfunction. His skin still crawls when Stark comes closer, but he bites down on his tongue and holds still.

“Acceptable level of _additional_ pain, zero,” his handler orders and he nods, desperately hoping that he won’t have to actually speak up. Stopping tests because of pain has never been acceptable before and he’s not sure he can actually do it now, even with orders.

Thankfully, Stark doesn’t do much besides manipulate his arm (which hurts, but no more than usual) and open up a few sections to, as he puts it, ‘see what’s going on under the hood’. Once he’s finished, he steps away to start analysing his results and the Asset has to fight to keep from staring after him in surprise because… because that had probably been the least painful check-up he’s ever had.

He’s not about to question it though and he follows his handler out of the room as soon as he’s finished talking to Stark. The pain in his shoulder hums quietly in the back of his mind as he enters the elevator and he’s not sorry to get as far away from this place as possible. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a lot happened in this chapter.  
> I was very interested in Bucky perspective on the interactions between Sam, Steve and Clint. He saw a lot more significance in the exchanging of ice cream than any of them probably intended. (Can you imagine if Steve hadn't given Sam the ice cream first?)  
> Also I thought that Clint would try to reassure Bucky a little. Bucky isn't ready to think about his responsibility and Hydra's orders, and Clint knows that, but I think he would still feel for Bucky.  
> And then of course, Bucky had a stressful check up with Tony, poor guy...


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset has an appointment with Dr Banner.

“I have to do some paperwork,” his handler tells him as they return to his room, before pausing in the entryway for a second and seemingly scanning him with is eyes, his mouth half-open. He looks away and his lips press together in silence for a moment before his fists clench and he steps further into the room.

Anxiety swirls in the Asset’s stomach as he watches his handler head to his room, and he remains standing uncertainly by the door, trying to analyse the situation. He’d thought that his handler hadn’t noticed his malfunctions earlier today, but maybe he had. His handler is probably disappointed then, that his asset is so defective now— but he doesn’t know _how_ to be a good asset without regular maintenance and he still doesn’t know all the _rules_ yet—

His anxious train of thought gets cut off as his handler reappears, exiting his room with a stack of paper and files in his arms. “You can come sit,” he says simply as he takes his own seat on the couch. The Asset eyes him for a second but complies, going over to sit on the other end of the couch and watching as his handler sets his files down between both of them and goes to open the first one.

“I don’t have anything for you to do right now,” he says, sounding almost regretful as he pulls the file into his lap and clicks open his pen. He gestures briefly to the bookshelf near the TV, opposite to the pile of bedding. “You can read those though, if you want.”

The Asset flickers his eyes over to the bookshelf as his handler begins his paperwork, and he isn’t quite sure what to do. He very rarely reads anything besides mission reports, and the books on his handler’s shelf don’t look mission related at all.

He glances back over to his handler, whose brow is now furled in concentration as he scans his files. Something about that look feels intimately familiar, though he’s not sure _why_ , and he decides to simply sit back and wait for his next orders. It’s nice enough to just be able to sit after his stressful check-up, and his handler doesn’t seem to mind that he doesn’t go over to read the books.

The sound of rustling paper and scribbling pens fills the air for a while before his handler speaks up again, never taking his eyes off of his current file. “JARVIS can you put on my music please?”

“Certainly Captain,” JARVIS replies, and the Asset relaxes even further as soft music begins to filter into the room. It doesn’t quite sound like anything he’s heard in passing on his missions before, but at the same time he almost feels like humming along (he doesn’t, but he’s left wondering where he could have picked that up from.)

oOo

For supper, his handler takes them back to the common room, and they find Dr Banner there as well. He’s making his own food and the smell of it actually makes the Asset’s mouth water as he follows his handler into the kitchen. He’s not used to being around anything but his own rations when off mission, so it feels almost strange to see other people eating and preparing food so casually.

He’s distracted away from Banner’s food when he notices his handler tensing up at the freezer again, and he narrows his eyes slightly at the sight, making a mental note to keep an eye on that. Something about it is important.

His handler makes their dinner and their routine continues as usual until about halfway through doing dishes, when his handler abruptly asks JARVIS to call Wilson down to the common room.

“Staff Sergeant Wilson will be down momentarily,” JARVIS replies, and the Asset is left to wonder what his handler could want, and whether Wilson had done anything wrong.

 _He probably hasn’t_ , he eventually decides as he dries a bowl, theorizing that since Wilson is still getting integrated into the team, it’s likely his handler simply wants to help facilitate that.

Wilson complies swiftly to Handler-Rogers request, arriving just as they finish dishes and throwing an amused look heavenward. “I told you to call me Sam,” he tells JARVIS ruefully, prompting a small smile from his handler.

“Indeed Sam,” is all JARVIS says, but the Asset gets the sudden impression of a disapproving school teacher looking down in exasperation at his rowdy children. He blinks and the image is gone, and his handler is looking at him.

“Wait in the kitchen with Bruce please,” he says, and he accepts the order, nodding along with Banner as his handler and Wilson go over towards the living room. His ears are probably sensitive enough to pick up parts of their conversation if he tried, but he attempts to ignore them, instead turning to watch Banner as he packs away his leftover food.

Banner opens the fridge without hesitation, and he’s left wondering if that is something only his handler has a problem with, and if so, why? He’s distracted from that thought though, once Banner starts gathering up his dishes and… putting them… He narrows his eyes and tries not to move his head as he watches Banner open up… some sort of metal cupboard, with what looks like racks of dirty dishes inside.

He stares as Banner rolls the bottom rack out and begins trying to fit his own dishes in among the rest. The racks are rather full, so it takes some work, and once he’s done, he pushes them back inside and grabs a small, square block of something out from under the sink. He fits the colourful cube into a little slot in the door and lifts it up, stepping away as it latches closed.

There are buttons on the outside of the ‘cupboard’ door, and he pushes the one marked ‘start’ and the next second a dull rushing noise begins to fill the air between them, seeming to come from the strange cupboard.

He’s so entranced by the whole process that he doesn’t realise how obvious with his attention he’s being, and his eyes widen slightly as the next second, Banner looks up and catches his eye. He shrinks back and hunches his shoulders defensively, desperately hoping that Banner doesn’t mind being watched. No one had _said_ anything to make him think that that might be a rule, but maybe the strange cupboard isn’t for him to know about since his handler hadn’t shown it to him yet and now Banner is going to have to _report_ him—

Banner’s eyes dart between him and the cupboard a few times before rubbing a hand over his mouth and shifting a little on his feet. “I guess… I guess you might not know what a dishwasher is,” he says a little uncertainly, and the Asset sweeps his eyes over the cupboard again, turning the word over in his head. A dishwasher? Hadn’t Barton mentioned those before?

“Negative,” he replies finally, his throat almost closing up before he manages to get the word out. Banner doesn’t seem to mind though, and he just shrugs, looking down as he takes off his glasses and begins to wipe them with the edge of his shirt.

“I don’t think Steve uses them much,” he says, shuffling his feet a little and replacing his glasses. “I think he said they were too loud for him once.”

 _Right,_ he realises suddenly, his eyes widening as knowledge he hadn’t known he had floods his brain. _The serum made his ears real sensitive so he can hear real well, but we gotta be careful ‘round crowds, and with grenades ‘coz he sometimes gets disorientated after those—_

He almost jerks as he becomes aware of his handler coming up by his side and he can’t help glancing up at his ears as he approaches, the newfound information buzzing in the back of his mind in a way that makes him think he hadn’t read any of it in a debriefing packet before.

He stays quiet as his handler says goodbye to Banner and Wilson before turning to lead him back to their room, the sound of the dishwasher following them all the way to the elevator.

Back in the room, his handler tells him that he can make up his bed again before he asks JARVIS to order a few clothes and things for him. It feels a little weird to be privy to his handler’s decisions on his part, but it’s comforting to know that his handler is taking his job seriously, even if his orders are a little confusing sometimes.

His handler leaves his door half-open again as he enters his room, but he leaves the light off, which makes him wonder if he’s going to bed already. He sits on the couch, looking towards the door for a moment, before sweeping his eyes around the room. It’s evening, so he could technically go to bed now, but he’s pretty sure that he’ll wake up too early tomorrow if he does.

His eyes land on the bookshelf and he’s busy wondering if his handler’s offer for the books had been a one-time chance or not, when his ears catch onto the faint sounds of talking coming from his handler’s room.

He whips his head around and tenses at the unknown sound, instinctively sliding off the couch and beginning to half-crawl, half-walk his way over to his weapons cache, his movements smooth and deathly silent. In the back of his mind he knows his handler had said that JARVIS monitors the tower and that he won’t need to worry about security threats, but _someone is in his handler’s room_ and he needs to keep him safe. That is _Important._

He pulls out a small knife from his pile and clutches it carefully in his hand as he stands up and edges over to his handler’s doorway, his ears straining to hear the faint noises from inside.

“ _Re-Experiencing, Hyperarousal, Feeling worse about yourself or the world, and Avoidance are the four types of symptoms people with PTSD have,”_ a male voice says and he pauses confused. The voice continues on to explain the four symptoms and he leans his shoulder against the wall as he listens, gradually coming to recognise the tinny sound quality of a video being played.

A video.

His handler is watching a _video_ and he’d almost burst inside – with a _knife_ – _outside of orders_. He breathes in quietly, his hand clenching around his knife as he closes his eyes. He can only hope that his handler hadn’t heard him moving around because arming himself is _definitely_ not allowed. Of course, even if his handler hadn’t heard him, JARVIS can still report him and then his handler will have to punish him even though he hadn’t been _trying_ to disobey, he’d been trying to _protect_ his handler, he’s not trying to be _bad_ — 

“ _If you recognize these symptoms of PTSD in yourself, or someone you love,”_ the video cuts into his thoughts and he brings his free hand up to rub at his eyes. “ _Don’t wait. See your doctor to find out if it could be PTSD.”_

He edges away a little as the video finishes, sliding down the wall like he had the previous night and resting his arm across his knees, the knife slack in his hand as he listens to his handler click on another video.

He’s still awake when his handler finally goes to sleep, and he stares ahead into the darkened room, thinking over the things he’d overheard. His eyes flick up to the ceiling for a second and he licks his lips before he pulls himself up from the floor and makes his way back to his bed.

The videos his handler had been watching turns over in his mind as he puts his knife away and he can’t help wondering why this ‘PTSD’ is so important to him. If the video had explained the term, he’d missed it, so he still isn’t quite sure what it _means_ exactly, let alone why his handler had been researching it.

He glances at the ceiling again as he goes to sit on the couch and bites his lip.

 _“If you require assistance with something,”_ his handler had said _. “Ask JARVIS and he will help you.”_

He chews on his lip as he thinks and glances over at his handler’s door as if to make sure he’s still sleeping and won’t be able to hear him. Handler-Rogers _had_ _said_ to ask JARVIS for help, so… so logically he should be able to ask JARVIS about this without getting in trouble.

 _And,_ he reasons to himself. _If this is important to my handler, then it is probably important to my mission too._ He should _definitely_ know about it, if it’s important to the mission.

Still, it’s hard to work up the courage to say the actual words.

He risks another glance at his handler’s room and the doorway remains as dark as ever, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times. He clears his throat quietly and balls up a fist in the blanket under him, the world blurring slightly as he sucks in a small breath. “JARVIS?”

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?” He jumps even though JARVIS’ voice is softer than usual, and his throat closes up for a second as his fist tightens on the blanket.

He opens and closes his mouth a few more times before pressing his lips together and massaging the blanket between his fingers. “JARVIS,” he tries again, his voice raspier than he wants. His breath stutters as he tries to come up with the correct sentence structure and he grits his teeth. “PTSD definition, required,” he manages finally, his shoulders hunching as he speaks.

“Certainly, Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS responds, his voice as hushed as before, which he appreciates since his handler is less likely to overhear that way. “PTSD is commonly defined as a psychological reaction occurring after experiencing a highly stressful event – such as wartime combat, physical violence, or a natural disaster,” JARVIS explains. “It is usually characterized by depression, anxiety, flashbacks, recurrent nightmares, and avoidance of reminders of the event.”

He blinks, not sure exactly what he had been expecting, part of him simply surprised that JARVIS had answered his question at all.

“PTSD stands for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” JARVIS continues. “However, you may possibly know it as Shell-Shock, or Combat-Fatigue.”

He nods a little numbly because part of him is sure he’s never come across those terms before, but the words seem to poke at _something_ , even if he isn’t exactly sure _what._ “Thank you, JARVIS,” he manages, filing away the information he’d been given and blinking tiredly as his hand relaxes on his blanket.

“You are most welcome Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS replies.

That night, after he falls asleep, he dreams.

He doesn’t dream often. Usually it’s a sign that he’s gone too long without maintenance, but now he supposes, it might be unavoidable.

_He’s back in the Vault, except it’s seemingly empty, the sound of his own breathing and movement the only things breaking the stillness around him. He’s in the training room, the harsh yellow light shining down on him as he works at reassembling his gun._

_He’s hand slips and he fumbles because the pieces don’t seem to want to go together no matter how many different ways he tries to reconfigure them, and he scowls, readjusting his grip to try again._

_A single footstep behind him is all the warning he gets before a hand falls on his shoulder and he whips around, his heart leaping into his throat as he tries to hold up his useless gun._

_Behind him is his handler (except he has another name, something else besides Handler-Rogers that he_ can’t remember _) and his eyes are deep and sorrowful as he stares him down._

 _“You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly, and the Asset stares at him uncomprehendingly. His handler shakes his head and lifts up his other hand so that he’s holding onto both his shoulders, his eyes achingly sad. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says again, and for some reason the Asset can feel his hands on_ both _his flesh and metal arm. “You need to go home.”_

_Time seems to freeze between them as his handler stares into his eyes and the Asset flicks his gaze over him, his mouth opening slowly as his hands clutch defensively at his gun._

_‘What do you mean?’ He wants to ask, the words catching and dying in his throat. ‘I don’t understand—’_

_A sudden noise in the doorway, like a boot turning sharply in dirt, makes them both turn and look and then—_

He blinks awake, tense and confused, his eyes focusing to stare at the time on the clock. It’s four in the morning. His handler is still sleeping. 

oOo

His days drift into a strange but consistent routine in the Avengers tower, and while he isn’t privy to all the their plans, he knows that they’re preparing themselves for their upcoming fight against Hydra. Agent Romanoff and Agent Barton leave for a few days to neutralize a few smaller bases closer to home and Stark begins his upgrades of Wilson’s jetpack.

He also apparently needs to see him again.

He hadn’t been expecting to have to go in for more maintenance so soon after his last round, but a few day later he finds himself back in the elevator with his handler, his stomach tense and his shoulders rigid as he watches the numbers on the wall tick downwards towards the basement. The doors ding open and he steps out after his handler, flicking he’s eyes over the room in a perimeter sweep before pausing briefly at the unexpected presence of Dr Banner beside Stark.

“Hi Bucky,” Banner greets him, his hands fidgeting together. The Asset darts his eyes over to him, his anxiety momentarily forgotten at the sound of that name again. His handler had been using it around him more and more since he’d come to the tower, but he’s pretty sure Banner is the first of the Avengers to call him by it.

He… he likes it. He doesn’t know exactly _why_ no one is calling him by his proper title, but he doesn’t really _mind_ it either.

“Bruce and Tony want to develop a medicine for you,” his handler speaks up and he glances over at him. “It’ll help your arm not hurt as much.”

Banner nods along with his handler and he motions him towards a stool and table. Stark shifts away from him as he approaches and rubs his arms. “You probably don’t need me for this part Bruce,” he says, his eyes skating up and away as he talks.

Banner nods and Stark moves further away to the other side of the room where he has several projections of Wilson’s jetpack set up. Behind him, his handler sits down at a nearby table and the Asset is left to wonder uneasily at the turn of events. He has no idea what to expect from this session. Hydra had tried a few times to develop something that could knock him out effectively, but he doesn’t think he’s ever gotten pain medication before.

He can’t help tensing as he watches Banner fiddle with the computer in front of him, pulling up several screens of text that are too small for him to read. “Okay.” Banner looks up at him and comes over to sit on a stool in front of him (and somehow that small gesture helps ease some of the tension building up in his stomach.) “Do you know what pain medication is?”

He nods his head because the term seems rather self-explanatory.

“Have you ever taken any before?” Banner asks him, and he shakes his head. “Okay,” he shifts a little in his chair and crosses his legs, clasping his hands in his lap. “Because your left arm is much heavier than your right, your body is having to adapt in ways it isn’t used to in order to function,” he starts and the Asset nods along as he speaks.

Banner reaches for a tablet laying on the table and onlines it to show him a basic 3D rendering of a body, the left arm fitted with a prosthetic like his own. “This causes muscle and joint tension in your shoulder and back,” he explains as those areas light up in red on the screen. “And that results in chronic pain on your part.”

He eyes the 3D images and nods slowly. He’s never had his maintenance explained to him like this before, and although he still feels apprehensive about the whole thing, he finds he does breathe a little easier as he sits and waits for whatever is coming next.

“Untreated chronic pain can lead to complications beyond just physical symptoms,” Banner continues, putting the tablet down. “It can trigger new or worsened depression, anxiety and difficulty sleeping.” He adjusts his glasses a little and re-clasps his hands. “Chronic pain can also make it more difficult to keep up at work, manage tasks at home and attend social gatherings,” he explains. “So, it’s important for us to begin treating it.”

The Asset nods and relaxes a little as he begins to understand what’s going on. He hadn’t realised that the pain in his shoulder counted as chronic pain, or that chronic pain is a bad thing. But if it’s likely to interfere with his mission, he can understand why the Avengers and his handler would want to do something about it. (He doesn’t really understand why Hydra had never thought about it before, but maybe they had, and he just doesn’t remember.)

“We already have some groundwork done on the medication side,” Banner says, gesturing to the text screens behind him. “We found something that works for Steve, but since his serum is a little different than yours, we’ll still have to try out a few things before we get it exactly right.”

They won’t be developing a brand-new medication. That would be a lot of work and would require a lot of testing and they wouldn’t be able to predict the side effects very well. Instead they will be taking an existing pain med and modify it a little to work with his serum.

“Today I will just take some blood,” Banner says. “We need to see how your serum is different from Steve’s before we do anything else.”

He nods and tries not to tense too much as Doctor Banner starts putting on gloves and laying out his equipment. He’s had his blood taken before, it’s not even that painful if the technician is paying attention— if he holds still it will be _fine._

“Okay,” Banner offers him a small smile as he rolls his chair closer and holds up a cotton swab. “I just need to clean your arm first,” he says, and the Asset holds out his right arm, glad that his sleeve is short enough that it won’t get in the way.

After his arm is clean and dry, Banner reaches over to grab a blood pressure cuff. “I need to put this around your arm,” he says, and the Asset blinks a little at the unexpected explanation.

Banner leans over and fits the cuff around his arm, his hands slow and gentle as he works, and the Asset finds himself breathing a little easier at the doctor’s unrushed method.

“Now I’m going to apply some pressure,” he warns, pumping the cuff a few times and the Asset can feel the restricted blood flow almost immediately. Doctor Banner feels the vein in his arm for a second before finally reaching over to grab his needle. “You can look away if you want,” he says as he removes the packaging and the Asset lifts his eyes up to stare resolutely at the back wall, breathing in quietly through his nose as the needle goes in.

A minute or so later and it’s over and Doctor Banner’s fingers press a square of gauze against his inner elbow. “Can you push on this please?” he asks, and the Asset moves his left arm up to press down as Doctor Banner gathers up his filled vials and grabs some dressings.

“You’ll probably be like Steve and heal soon enough,” he says as he begins to bandage his arm. “But I’ll wrap it _anyways_ ,” he shoots Handler-Rogers a pointed look and his handler ducks his head, his mouth quirking upwards slightly. The Asset flicks his eyes between the two, trying to figure out what subtext he seems to be missing out on—

— _just ‘coz ya heal fast doesn’t mean you can go without medical treatment_ St--- _,” he snaps exasperatedly. “Shut up and let M---ta take a look—_

“Bucky?” He flinches and Banner and his handler are both giving him looks of concern. “Are you alright?” Banner asks and his pulse speeds up in response.

They can’t know he malfunctioned. Malfunctioning is _bad_ —

“Affirmative,” he replies tightly, his shoulders tensing as he speaks, and he hopes desperately that he hasn’t messed up too badly. He needs to be a good asset, he _knows_ this, but if he keeps malfunctioning then they might decide to bring back his wiping protocols and he doesn’t _want_ that.

Banner shares a silent look with his handler but offers him a small smile. “Okay,” he says gently, easing back on his stool and taking off his gloves. “If that’s all then, I’ll call you back when I have something for you.”

His handler nods, standing up, and the Asset follows immediately. Relieved that he’d somehow avoided punishment for the time being.

oOo

Banner continues to call them back to the lab periodically, and most of the time his handler accompanies him, usually sitting quietly out of the way while Banner explains the different medicines he’s trying and their possible side-effects. Stark is usually in the room too, although he mostly keeps away.

“You don’t really need me for this part anyway,” is all he says. “I’m mostly the ‘pay to develop it’ part.”

Some of the drugs Banner tries don’t really seem to do anything, and honestly, he’s not even sure what it would be like for his arm to not be in pain. (But then one time, his shoulder just… doesn’t… hurt, for about an hour and he’d had to fight the urge to poke at it because… he can’t remember it ever feeling like that before.) After that, he can’t help wondering if that is how people actually feel _all the time._

Doctor Banner smiles when he hears the news and his handler’s face lights up (which causes something light and warm to curl up in his chest) and after that they’d moved on to trying to find the right dose to off-set the effects of his serum.

He gets used to the multitude of sessions with Banner and they no longer cause him anxiety every time. He’s handler leaves with Wilson during one of his sessions though, and he spends the whole time slightly tense and vaguely distracted as he keeps an ear out for the sound of the elevator marking his handler’s return. Luckily, Banner doesn’t report his distracted behavior and his handler returns within an hour, looking tired but unharmed.

He should have _known_ that that would only be the precursor to something bigger though, because about a week later, he’s standing in the common room, his face determinedly blank as his handler fiddles with the leather cuffs of his jacket.

“I’ll be back in about an hour,” he says. “Maybe a little more.” He gestures to Barton standing off to the side and runs a hand through his hair. “Clint will stay with you,” he says, his eyes darting back and forth between the two of them. “He— you…” He presses his lips together for a second and shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “Defer to Clint for instruction while I’m gone,” he says finally, his face carefully blank.

“Confirmed,” he replies, his hands clenching behind his back. Logically, he knows he’s been away from his handlers before, he’s conducted whole missions without them— he’s even been away from Handler-Rogers before when he’d been housed at the Vault, but now…

Now he swallows carefully and tries not to make it too obvious how much he _doesn’t want_ his handler to walk out that door.

He does anyways and leaves him standing there, alone with Agent Barton. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the companion story, someone commented about Bucky hearing Steve's video, and he did! He was ALSO able to ask JARVIS something, so that's good.
> 
> Also, I really loved Bruce's interactions with Bucky. You know it's been a long time since anyone from the medical profession has bothered to explain to Bucky what's happening to him.
> 
> Next up is Bucky alone with Clint!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset spends the day with Barton.

“So,” Barton puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “What do you want to do?”

The Asset blinks at him and his brow furls just slightly as he tries to decide if he’s being tested. “The Asset does not have wants,” he reminds Barton, privately hoping that his… deviation from that directive has not been discovered.

Barton’s face goes abruptly blank for a second and he stills. “Well.” He flicks his eyes over him and his hands clench inside his pockets. “ _That’s_ dumb.” The Asset stares at him and Barton rolls his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Tell you what,” he says, a strange hardness in his eyes. “Have you ever watched a movie before?”

“…Negative,” he replies, a little confused.

Barton flashes him a grin and motions for him to follow as he heads over to the couch. “JARVIS, can you turn it on for me?” he asks, settling onto the couch with a remote in his hand. “You can sit,” he says, throwing him a brief glance as he begins flicking through pictures on the screen.

The Asset sits cautiously on the other end of the couch and watches as Barton continues to scan through the images on screen.

“First movie,” Barton mumbles under his breath as he flicks through the options. “Big responsibility.” He stops on the animated image of a child and a… The Asset narrows his eyes as he tries to remember the word. He catches sight of the title under the image and relaxes. A dragon. Yes, that’s what it is.

“This is a good one,” Barton says with a smile. “My— ah, it’s really popular with kids these days so…” He shrugs. “Yeah, anyways, _How to Train Your Dragon,_ I hope you like it.” He presses a button on the remote and the screen goes black for a second before the movie intro begins playing.

The animation style is a little different than he’s expecting (although he’s never _seen_ one of these before, so he doesn’t know why he’s expecting anything in the first place), but he finds himself getting drawn into the story nonetheless.

Hiccup, the main character, is too small to really be of any use fighting the dragons, but he wants to fight them anyways, and he reminds him a lot of… His brow furls. It reminds him a lot of… someone. Someone small and determined and… and blond.

He blinks and mentally shies away from the thought, not wanting to accidentally trigger a malfunction. If Barton sees him malfunctioning, then he might turn off the movie, and he… wants to see how it ends. He clenches his jaw and turns back to the film, watching as Hiccup finally manages to shoot down a dragon, only to be unable to actually kill him later.

From there Hiccup befriends the dragon, naming him Toothless and helping him learn to fly again as he begins learning all sorts of new things about dragons that he hadn’t known before. He finds out that there’s an Alpha dragon controlling all the other dragons and forcing them to fight (he tenses up at that scene, but he doesn’t know why), and Hiccup goes to try to share his newfound knowledge with the rest of his village.

The village doesn’t want to listen though, and he watches as Toothless is taken away and Hiccup must come up with a rescue plan, he and his friends riding dragons of their own to take on the Alpha queen.

 _“That thing has wings!”_ Hiccup says before urging Toothless to fly higher, prompting the Alpha to fly after them. He watches with bated breath, unconsciously leaning forward as Toothless and Hiccup whip around at the last moment to fire into the Alpha’s mouth, burning her up from the inside and causing a firework of explosions to light up the sky.

Except now Hiccup is falling and Toothless’ prosthetic tailfin is broken and useless as he tries to get to him.

— _grab my hand!” ~~His handler~~ St--- reaches for him and he reaches back desperately, even though he’s not really sure how Ste-- intends to pull them both back up afterwards. He misses, his hand flailing in space as his stomach lurches into his throat and the bar under him gives away with a piercing screech of metal. His eyes widen as he drops, and a scream tears its way out of his throat._

 _“Bucky, no!” Ste-- yells and—_

His metal hand makes a soft whirling noise as he tightens it into a fist and blinks hard, focusing back on the movie, silently hoping that Barton hadn’t noticed anything.

Barton doesn’t say anything, and they finish the movie, watching as Hiccup wakes up, a new prosthetic leg replacing his old one. (His shoulder pulses in sympathy and he wonders if Hiccup has anyone like Doctor Banner who will try to find a pain medication for him.)

The movie ends and he relaxes a little as the credits begin to scroll. Beside him, Barton stretches and checks his watch. “Looks like Cap’s not back yet,” he says, picking up the remote. “Do you want to watch another one?”

The Asset flicks his eyes over him for a second before he hesitantly nods, and Barton smiles. “Perfect,” he says. “How do you feel about horses?”

Barton chooses another movie called _Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron_ and the animation for this one is more familiar (which still doesn’t make sense, but whatever.) They watch until JARVIS announces Handler-Rogers’ return and the Asset stands instinctively as the elevator doors ding open. He scans his handler as he enters and he looks tired again, the smile on his face more of a grimace than anything else.

“Hey Cap,” Barton says, pausing the movie and looking over at him. “We were just watching _Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron,_ did you want to watch?”

The Asset feels a pulse of panic as his handler surveys the scene, a part of him worrying that he might not be pleased with how he’d spent his time. Barton had been the one to suggest movies, and his handler _had_ said to defer to Barton for instructions, but movies aren’t quite the most… productive ways to spend one’s time and maybe his handler would have preferred that he spend his time training instead—

“Sure,” his handler says, blinking a little tiredly as he comes around the couch to sit next to Barton. “What’s it about?”

Barton recaps the movie and the Asset slowly lowers himself back onto the couch, his eyes trained on his handler, ready for any signs of disapproval. His handler doesn’t even look at him as Barton hits a button on the remote and they all turn to continue watching.

It’s only about 15 minutes later that his handler’s head starts nodding off next to them and his eyes blink closed. He slumps slightly as he relaxes, his breathing slowly evening out. Barton doesn’t take long to notice Handler-Rogers’ behavior, and when he does, a soft, almost exasperated smile crosses his face.

Barton uncurls from his side of the couch and grabs a throw blanket from a nearby chair. “He always pushes himself too much,” he says almost fondly with a shake of his head as he drapes the blanket over his handler. “He could use a break.”

The Asset flicks his eyes over his handler and looks away, fighting the urge to nod. He’s suddenly absolutely certain that his handler is—is an _idiot_ sometimes. He blinks and shoves the thought away (an asset should _not_ critique his handler), before focusing back on the movie, a part of him remaining continually aware of his handler’s sleeping form beside him.

Barton leaves after the movie finishes and the Asset sits frozen for a while, internally debating whether he should wake his handler or not. In the end he doesn’t, choosing instead to move to the chair facing his handler, his eyes trained on his chest as he watches him breathe up and down.

The breathing is important.

It doesn’t take long for his handler to wake up though, and he seems to blink in surprise as he does so, his eyes scanning the room around him, before pausing briefly as they run across him. His cheeks heat slightly for some reason and he sits up. “JARVIS, what time is it?” he asks blearily.

“The time is 5:22,” JARVIS replies.

“Ah.” He stretches and rubs at his eyes. “I guess we better start getting supper ready then,” he says looking over at him.

The Asset finds himself nodding in response, his chin barely dipping as his handler stands up and begins heading towards the kitchen. His stomach rumbles quietly and he wonders what kind of smoothie his handler will make this time.

After supper they head back to his handler’s room, and the things he’d ordered earlier have arrived, sitting in a pile of cardboard boxes by the door. He helps his handler carry them inside and they set everything down next to the couch in the living room.

“These are changes of clothes,” his handler says, patting one of the boxes. “When your clothes are dirty, you can change into new ones and put the dirty ones in the hamper in the bathroom.”

He nods at the new information and watches as his handler slides a few flatter boxes towards himself. “This is a dresser,” he says. “So you can put your things away. We just need to put it together.”

Apparently, furniture assembly is harder than it looks.

He doesn’t think he’s ever had an assignment quite like this one before, and his skills don’t seem to be very well tailored for it. Luckily, his handler doesn’t seem too annoyed that he doesn’t know how to build furniture, and he even insists on helping him with most of it.

“Okay.” Handler-Rogers sucks in a breath and sits back slightly from the half-finished dresser. “What’s the next step again?”

The Asset reaches over again for the instruction manual and carefully reads out the next step. “Step five.” He angles the paper slightly so that his handler can see the rudimentary drawings for the step. “Add, and screw in drawer side rails.”

“Okay.” His handler scowls (but at the screwdriver, not him) and nods determinedly, the look somehow achingly familiar. “Can you hand me the screws?”

The Asset complies and helps hold the drawer rails in place as his handler screws them in. His metal fingers slip on the pieces, but his handler doesn’t get mad, instead helping hold them in place like… like they’re _both_ working on this together. (He thinks he likes this assignment the best so far.)

“You can put whatever you want in your dresser,” his handler says when they’re done. “I’ll let you know when it’s laundry day.” He starts gathering up the bits of garbage and extra screws that had come with the dresser before angling off to his room. “I’ll let you put your stuff away,” he says as he leaves. “Let me know if you need anything.”

He waits until he’s certain that his handler is asleep before he pulls open the cardboard box with his new clothes. Inside he finds several pairs of the same type of soft pants that he already has, as well as a few pairs made out of stiffer material.

He fingers the fabric for a moment before flicking his eyes to the ceiling. “JARVIS,” he rasps quietly, shrinking slightly as he speaks. He still not quite certain this is acceptable, but JARVIS hadn’t reported him _last_ time... “What… are these?” he asks, something about the fabric seems… familiar.

“You are holding a pair of jeans, Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS replies.

Oh. Jeans. _Work clothes,_ he thinks, even though he’s not quite sure how he knows that. He nods mutely at JARVIS’ response and moves to unpack the rest of the box. The shirts inside are soft, just like the one he has now, and he now has both long-sleeve and short-sleeved ones (the strangest part about them though, is the colours, only two of them are black, the rest are varying shades of brighter colours, and he wonders how those are supposed to help him on his missions.)

The clothes all fit in the first two drawers of his dresser and he carefully stashes his weaponry throughout, taking note of where everything is in case of an emergency. He hadn’t been carrying his weapons around because he’s not supposed to be armed unless given permission by his handler but… but he’s willing to break that rule if there’s ever any danger.

Not that there would be though, JARVIS seems to have that handled.

Once his clothes are put away, there isn’t much left for him to do besides make up his bed, and he goes to sleep wondering if, in the morning, it would be okay if he wore the blue shirt he’d gotten.

_The table is cold under him and he can’t move. It hurts to move anyways – hurts to_ breathe _actually – he’s pretty sure his rib is cracked, and besides that, he’s seen Ste--‘s pneumonia enough times to recognise the wheezing in his lungs anywhere._

 _…Probably why they pulled him off the assembly line. He’d_ tried _to keep up with the quota, but sleeping on a cold cement floor every night and surviving off of starvation rations every day isn’t exactly_ helpful _when trying to fight off an illness and that blasted guard had seemed to have it in for him—_

_The door opens and he squeezes his eyes shut, his breath stuttering as he listens for the doctor, with his stupid piggy eyes bugging out from behind his ridiculous glasses and his bloody needles full of who knows what—_

_“Asset.”_

_His eyes fly open and his heart lurches in his throat because it’s_ Pierce _standing over him, his face cold and dark and his mouth presses into a thin, disapproving line._

_He struggles instinctively against the straps holding him down and pain spikes through his left shoulder in response, making him gasp sharply and drag in a ragged breath as his vision whites out for a second._

_“Желание.” He hears Pierce say in badly accented Russian and he panics, pulling harder at the restrains as his pulse speeds up. “Семнадцать.”_

_“No,” he gasps, because he doesn’t_ want _this, he doesn’t want—_

_“Ржавый,” Pierce continues, and he bucks against the straps, desperately trying to get away. If he can get away then maybe he can stop it, maybe he won’t have to—_

He jerks awake, his heart hammering in his ears and his breath thin and strained in his lungs. He drags in a breath and curls in on himself on the couch, his teeth clenched together and his eyes squeezed shut.

 _Pierce is dead,_ he reminds himself firmly, his arm whirling slightly as he breathes. _Pierce is_ dead, _he’s gone, he’s gonehe’sgone—_

A noise sounds from his handler’s room and he freezes, his eyes shooting open as his breath stutters in his chest. He darts his gaze over to the doorway and it’s still dark as ever, but— but what if his handler had heard him—what if he gets in trouble—what if he—he’s not supposed to malfunction, he’s _not supposed to malfunction_ —

He stutters in another shaky breath as he sits up as quietly as possible, his heart pounding relentlessly against his ribs and his eyes trained fearfully on the door. His lungs spasm and he sucks in a breath, his hands clenched in his blankets. He looks down and becomes aware for the first time how twisted they’ve gotten, and he slowly, slowly unwinds the fabric from around his legs, his ears perked continually for any sound from his handler’s room.

He folds the blanket away from him before stilling, barely breathing as he picks up the creak of bedsprings from the other room and his heart climbs up into his throat as he hears his handler climb out of bed. His eyes are adjusted well enough to the dark that he can see him immediately when he appears in the doorway, and he tenses warily, his heartbeat loud in his ears as he waits for his handler’s verdict.

Handler-Rogers seems to tense too at the sight of him and his shoulders hunch as he glances away. “I…” His voice is shakier than he’s expecting. “I, was just, going to the kitchen,” he says, and his hand trembles just slightly as he runs it through his hair. The Asset swallows nervously, not quite sure how to respond, and his handler shrugs away. “If— if you want… you can come,” he says, before darting off to the kitchen.

The Asset breathes in uneasily and tries to calm his churning stomach. His handler hadn’t seemed angry, he’d actually— he’d actually looked _tired_ , and the Asset isn’t sure… how… to respond to that.

 _“He always pushes himself too much,”_ Barton had said _. “He could use a break.”_

He stands jerkily, without quite knowing why, and finds himself, against his better judgement, making his way over towards the kitchen. His handler’s back is towards him when he stops in the doorway, although he must have made a noise because Handler-Rogers jumps, whipping around to stare at him in a half-defensive stance.

The Asset freezes and stares, his heart pounding uncertainly.

“Oh.” His handler drops his shoulders and sucks in a breath. “Sorry I— guess I’m a little on edge.”

He blinks at the apology and deems it safe enough to edge his way over to where he usually sits, his eyes fixed on his handler. _‘Why are you on edge?’_ he wants to ask as he sits down, and he bites his tongue, forcing the words back.

In front of him, his handler rubs his arms and looks around the room restlessly. “I’m making tea,” he bursts out, his eyes focusing intently on the countertop. “Did you want some?”

His handler’s behavior is so erratic that he isn’t sure how to react and a few seconds later his handler’s hands tighten on his arms and he swallows. “I… guess… you’ve probably never had tea before,” he says slowly, which is true, and the Asset watches as his handler nods decisively to himself and turns towards the cupboards. “I’ll make you some.”

The Asset’s insides still feel slightly shaky as he watches his handler pull out a small box from the cupboard and set aside some mugs for them, and he breathes in quietly, clenching his hands under the counter as they wait in silence.

Eventually, a light on the kettle clicks on (and he realises abruptly that they’d been waiting for it to boil the whole time) and his handler pours the water over their tea before handing it over. “Careful, it’s hot,” he says, blowing on his own mug.

It _is_ hot, and he can feel the heat of it seeping into his right hand as he holds his cup. He takes a sip and almost scalds his tongue, but the warmth drops straight to his stomach and helps ease the nerves left over there from his dream.

He flicks his eyes over his handler as he drinks and notes the bags under his eyes and sweat spiked hair. His lips press together at the sight and he drops his eyes back down to his tea, only to jerk them up again a second later when his handler sighs.

Handler-Rogers glances up at him and swallows, breathing in carefully through his nose, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “I guess we both have trouble sleeping,” he says a little ruefully, and the Asset keeps his eyes pinned on him as he tries to assess whether ‘sleeping troubles’ is bad or not. His handler had said they _both_ have it, so… maybe not?

“JARVIS tells me we’re supposed to get eight hours of sleep a night,” his handler continues, his tea tilting dangerously as he fiddles with his mug. “I try to tell him I don’t need that much because of the serum, but he doesn’t believe me.”

“That is because your serum can only go so far, _Captain Rogers,_ ” JARVIS cuts in and they both jump, although, thankfully, without spilling anything. “Even super soldiers need to sleep.”

His handler mumbles something sulkily under his breath and the Asset gets the distinct impression that he’s amused. That impression is reinforced as his handler flashes him a smile. “There. See?” he says cheekily. “What did I tell you?”

He eyes his handler and feels his own flare of amusement bubble up in his chest. _Punk,_ he thinks fondly, without knowing exactly why, his mouth twitching upwards briefly.

His handler’s mouth twitches in response, and he swirls his tea around in his mug for a moment before turning to look back at the time on the microwave. “It’s too early to really do anything but…” He turns back and swallows. “…I’m not really tired.”

The Asset stays quiet and looks down at his tea, the thought of going back to bed not really appealing for him either.

“What about you?” his handler asks and he darts his eyes up. “Are you tired?”

 _No,_ he thinks.

“Negative,” he says, his eyes flicking down to the counter, fully aware that even though he’s replying to a direct question, he’s still expressing an opinion on something, and that… doesn’t always go over well.

His handler breathes in and glances over at the living room behind them. “Well…” He says slowly. “Well, I… never _did_ get to see that movie that you and Clint were watching…” The Asset’s eyes narrow before he can stop them and he stares at his handler, the hedging tone of his voice suddenly _very_ familiar. “If you want…” His handler continues with a not-so-casual shrug. “If you want, we could watch it… now.”

He stills, his mind working to try and figure out the best response. He… really isn’t ready to try going back to bed yet, and judging from his handler’s behavior, neither is he… but replying with an _opinion_ might not be— but— but. If it were _mission_ related, then…. Then he could. It’s fine if it’s mission related and his mission is to _live in Avengers Tower,_ and it seems that watching movies is something one _does_ in Avengers Tower so— so _logically_ it should be fine if he agrees.

So… so yeah. He can agree. That is something he can do.

He opens his mouth and for a split second he wishes for his mask. He hasn’t worn it since arriving at Avengers Tower – he doesn’t even know where it _is_ actually – but it had often been his saving grace before, keeping his face and expression hidden from dangerous handlers.

Not that his handler is dangerous, mostly the _situation_ is, and he doesn’t…

He breathes in. “…Affirmative,” he replies, his shoulders hunching into himself despite his best efforts.

His handler’s shoulders drop, and he knows immediately that he’s made the right decision. “Great,” he says, flashing him a smile. “We’ll have to watch it in the living room. Is that okay?”

He gives a shaky nod because it still feels weird to have his handler _ask_ him things and he drops his eyes, draining the rest of his tea as quickly as possible so he can follow Handler-Rogers into the living room.

JARVIS starts the movie up for them as they sit on the couch and they watch in silence as a wild stallion grows up and is captured by Western settlers. He’s already seen the movie, but he can’t help sympathizing a little with the horse as he’s jerked around in an attempt to tame him. They cut his mane— and for a half-second he’s _certain_ that his hair used to be shorter, he can feel it, like a ghost against his neck and face— and then the moment passes, and he’s left staring a little emptily at the screen.

Despite the settler’s best efforts, the stallion refuses to be tamed, throwing off every rider that tries to mount it. The Asset finds himself repressing a grin as the horse launches its most recent rider into the sky, silently rooting for it as it refuses to be broken. 

_“Sergeant,_ ” the leader of the settlers snaps. _“Tie this horse to the post. No food or water. Three days.”_

He tenses.

— _he stumbles as they shove him in, his bare feet scuffing and catching on the cement floor._

 _“See how you like it in here for a few days,” the guard snarls in accented English, grabbing his chin and twisting it towards him. “You_ will _break Sergeant,” he hisses. “You_ will _fight.”_

 _“Not for_ you,” _he spits back, earning himself a blow to the face. He overbalances and falls, his arm and shoulder_ screaming _as he lands_ hard _—_

He breathes in very carefully and risks a glance at his handler. Thankfully, he seems focused on the screen and not on his asset who is busy malfunctioning.

He is distinctly aware that his hair had been shorter in the malfunction. 

He clenches his jaw and fixes his eyes back on the screen, determined to finish watching the movie. Beside him, his handler continues watching as well, for some reason growing tenser as time goes on. He doesn’t understand why his handler is so stiff and after a while he cautiously glances over.

Handler-Rogers doesn’t look back, his knuckles white in his lap as he watches the stallion get led dejectedly onto a train car, seemingly hopeless after the death of his friend.

Something sour and anxious swirls around in his gut and he looks away, the pained expression on his handler’s face difficult to process. He shouldn’t look like that— he shouldn’t— he shouldn’t have to look like that.

His uneasiness over his handler’s emotional state only grows as the movie continues and he finds himself desperately racking his brain for _something_ that will make that horrible heartbroken look leave his handler’s eyes.

On screen the stallion bucks and breaks free of his chains, accidentally triggering a forest fire as he escapes. Words rise up in his throat as he watches, and he shoves them down because, how are _colours_ supposed to help his handler feel better?

The words persist though, and he shifts, swallowing nervously as his heart beginning to pound a little faster. The words push against his tongue and he doesn’t exactly understand why _those_ words but— but his handler looks _so sad_ and—

He clenches his jaw. “Th…” His throat tries to close up and he resists, figuring that he’s already gone _this_ far, he might as well keep going. “Th’ fire’s red,” he mumbles, his stomach dropping as he pulls into himself, his pulse loud in his ears. _What is he thinking,_ what _is he thinking—_

His handler stares at him, his mouth slightly open and his hands frozen in his lap. The Asset stares back, his shoulders hunched defensively. He’d probably spoken out of turn but he— he clenches his jaw. This is _right_ , he doesn’t know why but it _is._

“Yeah… I—” His handler blinks rapidly at him. “I see it Buck,” he says, his voice strained as he swallows.

Relieved that his handler seems to have accepted his words, he nods determinedly at him and turns back to the movie, warmth unfurling in his stomach as he turns over the name in his head.

 _Good,_ he thinks decisively. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: So Clint introduced movies to him (I like to imagine that he was inspired by his kids :D)
> 
> And then Bucky got to tell Steve the colours. He doesn't exactly remember WHY it's so important, but he knows it is.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset comes to a decision.

He decides that the red shirt he’d gotten with his new clothes is his new favourite shirt, and he’s wearing it a few days later when his handler places a small capsule next to his usual morning smoothie.

“Swallow this without chewing,” he says, sitting back to take a bite of his eggs. “Bruce said it should help dull the pain in your arm.”

The Asset nods mutely and swallows it down quickly (his handler tells him afterwards that he can drink something to help swallow it easier next time) and they soon head to the common room, the living space more lively than usual.

The Avengers are heading on their first Hydra-hunting mission with everyone since he’s arrived in the tower and he shadows his handler carefully, not wanting to get in the way as they rush through their last-minute checks.

“Clint, I swear if I find another stray arrow laying around I will lose my mind,” he hears Romanoff snap, her utility belt spread out on the counter top as she organises her supplies, the offending arrow leaning against the foot of her stool.

Barton ducks in and sweeps it up, gracefully side-stepping Banner as the doctor works on repacking a first-aid kit. A little ways away, the door to the landing pad is permanently open as Stark and various other Avengers truck supplies out to the waiting quinjet. His eyes follow them as they dart in and out and he can’t help marveling at the organised chaos around him. Back at the Vault this kind of disorder would _never_ have been acceptable, but his handler doesn’t seem to mind.

(The Asset shrugs his shoulder slightly as he watches, almost an unconscious movement, the expected flash of pain strangely absent.)

Eventually everything is in order and the Avengers pack off, leaving him and his handler alone in the tower. The resulting silence feels almost physical and even though he hasn’t spent much time with the other Avengers, the place still feels strangely empty without them. Handler-Rogers seems to feel the same, his face shuttered and quiet over lunch.

After lunch, his handler seems to deem it finally time to start his retraining, and he takes them down to the gym. (The Asset rolls his shoulder again and part of him is glad that his handler had seen fit to wait until his painkiller was ready before starting the training process.)

“You can use whatever you want in here,” his handler says vaguely as he wraps his hands, his eyes distracted. “I’ll be working on the punching bags. Tony’s modified them so that they’re strong enough for super soldiers.”

He turns away without another word and the Asset stares after him, completely at a loss. When his handler had started wrapping his hands, he’d thought that they would be starting his training with hand-to-hand combat, but apparently not.

 _…Maybe he wants me to show initiative in my training,_ he decides finally after watching his handler pound on the bags for a few minutes.

If that is the case, then choosing to use the punching bags _too_ would probably be too much like copying, meaning he needs to figure something else out. He sweeps his eyes over the rest of the equipment before pausing over the collection of treadmills lining the one wall.

He has a vague memory of being tested on those before and he figures they’re safe enough to start with. He squares his shoulders and heads over, thankful that the buttons are easy enough to figure out. Since he doesn’t know how long they will be here, and since his handler hasn’t given him any direction, he sets the machine at a jogging pace and gets on, the sound of his footfalls soon blending in with his handler’s punches.

He runs for a long time.

He doesn’t know how long exactly because after the first ten minutes he begins to zone out, slipping into a quiet calm place where the strain from running can’t touch him. He’s done this before, when Hydra had wanted to test his resilience and stamina. He can run for a _long_ time, and he’s not about to stop his training when his handler is still training himself.

No, he can keep going. He can keep going for however long is needed. Banner’s painkiller keeps his arm bearable and he can easily ignore the growing soreness in his muscles as long as he just focuses on nothing and Keeps. Going.

Reality filters back in a while later as he becomes aware of silence from his handler’s side of the gym. He looks up and his handler is staring at him, his hair slicked back with sweat and his hands slack by his side. Seeing his handler waiting, he stops immediately and steps off the treadmill to stand at attention, hoping that he isn’t breathing too heavily and that he’d fulfilled his handler’s expectations properly.

His handler continues to stare at him, and he grows a little uneasy as the silence stretches between them. Finally, his handler jerks his head away, his mouth pressing together in a thin line as he shakily begins to unwrap his hands.

(The Asset can’t help but notice the slight red discoloration on the bandages and a spark of anger shoots up into his chest before he smothers it down again, clasping his hands tighter behind his back and focusing intently on the wall behind his handler.)

“Come on,” his handler orders, not quite looking at him. “Let’s go.”

They exit the gym and take the elevator back up to his handler’s room. The silence somehow heavier than before.

Once they get back to the room, his handler makes them food even though it isn’t mealtime, to make up for the calories they had lost while training. The concept is a little unusual, but the Asset finds himself too focused on the fresh scabs on his handler’s fingers to really bother about anything else.

He has to practically anchor himself to the table with his left hand to keep from standing up and trying to find a first-aid kit. He _knows_ his handler heals fast, he _knows_ the scabs are basically nothing, that in a few hours they will be gone, but he also really really wants to do something about them.

He doesn’t, and he finds himself still focused on them after lunch, his handler sitting next to him on the couch, a notebook in hand.

— _It wasn’t my fault!” The boy protests, flinching away from him as he dabs a bloody bruise on his forehead._

_“It never is,” he replies distractedly, rinsing out the cloth and going in to dab again, much to the protest of the blond in front of him. “Hold still.”—_

He blinks and stares blankly ahead of himself, the sound of his handler’s journaling filling his ears as he turns over the latest malfunction in his brain. That boy… he… knew him, from somewhere. He did, he knew him—

He remembers himself and mentally pulls back, silently cursing himself for almost _worsening_ his malfunction. That isn’t _allowed._

He clenches his jaw and stares determinedly at the wall in front of him until his handler gets up again.

oOo

He can’t get the blond boy out of his head. He tries, but flashes of him keep popping up. Micro-expressions on his handler’s face will set off brief little images of the same types of expressions on the _other_ boy’s face, and he doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t really know who, or what, or _why,_ the other boy is, and he can’t exactly _ask_ anyone. Even if JARVIS has refrained from reporting him before, he’s pretty sure that the computer will _have_ to report a malfunction of this size, so that’s out, and there’s _no way_ he’s asking his handler.

His handler may be patient and benevolent, but he doubts that even _he_ will allow this sort of thing.

So, he’s left with confusing half-impressions of a small, thin, blond, _determined_ boy. And he doesn’t know why. The flashes he gets of the boy are so brief – and he shies away from them anyways because they’re _dangerous_ – that he really doesn’t know much about him except that sometimes he gets a sudden overwhelming urge to _protect._

(Except he _can’t_ because he’s _gone_ and he doesn’t know _where he is_ )

Thankfully, his handler doesn’t seem to notice his dilemma and he works on keeping his malfunctions as secret as possible. Sometimes even risking less sleep, just to avoid waking his handler up with his dreams.

He has to sleep eventually though, and he dreams anyway.

_Handler-Karpov orders him to help train the new Winter Soldiers, and he keeps his face blank as he eyes the five soldiers in front of him._

_They_ chose _this. He’s not sure why that’s important, but he knows it is. They_ wanted _this. They were already master assassins before this and Hydra had just made them_ worse –

 _The first one steps up to fight and he readies himself, sweeping his eyes over her to assess her skills. She strikes first and he pulls back, mentally recalculating as he realises just how_ fast _she is. His arm whirls as he aims a punch at her face and she blocks it, throwing him back slightly and retaliating with another punch, her eyes glinting as she snarls at him._

_He wins the fight but only just._

_As the days and training matches continue, and the other Winter Soldiers get better and better with their newfound strength, he very quickly realises that he is becoming obsolete. At this point his value as an asset is mainly to act as a whetstone for these new soldiers, sharpening their skills until one day he can’t fight back—_

_He gasps and grits his teeth as in the latest fight, Josef ~~these soldiers have names but he does not~~ successfully lands a blow to one of his kidneys. He stumbles and twists away, just barely blocking a knee to the face and stepping out of range. He pants and his arm whines unhappily, a few of the plates dented from when Josef had almost trapped him in an arm lock. _

_Josef’s eyes are hard as he stares him down, the audience of handlers and technicians a blur behind him as the Asset tries not to think too hard about failing in front of them._

_He shakes his head, trying to get the sweat-damp strands of hair out of his face. Bitter acid crawls up his throat and he swallows heavily, lifting his fists and eying the soldier in front of him warily._

_Josef’s face twists and that’s his only warning before the next fury of blows. He blocks them the best he can, grunting as he’s forced back. A sharp pain explodes on the side of his head and his vision spins, his ears ringing as Josef manages to land a blow to his temple. He doesn’t have time to block the next punch to his nose and his vision blurs as it breaks._

_He doesn’t even have time to process the pain as the next second, his world tilts and he finds himself flying through the air. He gasps raggedly as the air gets knocked out of him, fire dancing up and down his back as he collides with the back wall._

_He collapses, his muscles burning, and his breath laboured, blood dripping down his chin from his nose. In front of him, Josef drops his hands, a disgusted look on his face. He tosses his head with a defiant smirk before lazily starting to make his way over to him._

_The Asset closes his eyes, blocking out Josef’s approaching form and the judging handlers in the distance. He’s so tired and everything hurts and he knows he should get up – he should continue the fight because his handler hasn’t called if off yet but he doesn’t_ want _to._

_Time seems to slow as Josef walks towards him, and he waits, wondering if maybe this time the new super soldier will finally take him out of commission. That’s what is waiting for him anyway, once he’s outlived the rest of his usefulness. Hydra will have five new super soldiers and he can finally—_

_“Bucky!” His eyes snap open, and Josef is still coming, but in front of him, kneeling on the floor with an intent and desperate look on his face, is a small blond boy._

_He stares uncomprehendingly, his vision still blurry and his breathing laboured as he scans the thin frame in front of him. Who…? What…? Why…?_

_“Bucky!” The boy – Stev- says again, his breath hitching dangerously as he leans towards him, his hand reaching forward. “Get up,” he says pleadingly, his voice strained. “You have to get up.”_

_He cringes away and turns his face to the concrete, his nose pulsing painfully and the sound of Josef’s approaching footsteps growing louder in his ears. He doesn’t want to, he’s too tired, he doesn’t want—_

_“Bucky.” The boy sounds even more desperate than before. “Bucky, please. Get up. You_ have _to get up.”_

_He looks back and Josef is almost on top of him, his leg pulling back in cruel slow-motion, angled for his ribs._

_“Get_ up _Bucky!” Steve screams._

_He moves._

_Metal whines and groans in protest and surprise flashes over Josef’s face as at the last second, his left hand snaps up, catching Josef’s foot inches before it connects with his exposed side._

_He glares. Blood dripping down his face as he sits up and_ yanks _Josef’s foot towards him. The soldier overbalances with a cry and tumbles to the ground and the Asset is on top of him before he can react, his left hand pulled back aiming for his face—_

“Стоп!” _Handler-Karpov barks and he freezes, his fist inches away from Josef’s unguarded face._

 _He pulls back wearily, breathing harshly and internally wincing as he wipes his mouth and accidentally jostles his broken nose. (They’d stopped the fight when he_ _was winning, why did they stop it when_ **he** _was winning—)_

_Technicians come to look over Josef and the Asset stands up shakily, stumbling a little as his eyes sweep the room, looking for the—_

_His breath stalls in his lungs and he scans the room desperately, looking for—_

_Who is he looking for? He stumbles backwards and his shoulder twinges as it hits the wall behind him and he tries to pull up the image of the— of—. Who, is he looking for? He’s looking for someone, he is looking for—_

_Nothing comes to mind except for blurry yellow and he lets out a low keen because he can’t remember. He can’t_ remember, _it’s_ Important _and he can’t_ remember.

He wakes shaking, and for half-a-second he expects it to hurt when he breathes in through his nose, the memory of the blood and pain from his dream still far too close for comfort. He runs a hand over his face, breathing thinly as he confirms that none of his nightmare injuries have actually translated into real life.

He sits up slowly and scans the familiar surroundings, trying to ground himself. He breathes in quietly and flicks his eyes over to his handler’s half-open door, checking to make sure he hasn’t woken him. The doorway remains dark and he doesn’t hear anything, so he’s probably safe.

He runs a shaky hand through his tangled hair and hunches his shoulders, his eyes fixed on his feet as he thinks over his dream. The boy had been there, he can remember now, the boy had been there with his baggy clothes and his skinny shoulders and his narrow face (he always needed to eat more, he was so small, but between money and his constant illnesses he was always just _slightly_ too thin—)

He blinks and breathes in, swallowing uneasily as he presses his hands firmly against his knees. The boy had been named Steve.

He breathes out. The boy had been named Steve. He remembers that. It’s _Important_ , the boy had been named Steve and— and— his handler is _also_ named Steve.

He _knows_ his handler is named Steve. He’s heard the other Avengers call him by it (and also Cap and Captain and Capsicle, although the last one is mostly Stark) and he can vaguely remember having read a debriefing packet on Handler-Rogers when he had been with Hydra.

Steven Rogers. Steven _Grant_ Rogers (he can’t… he can’t remember if the middle name had been in the file or not). His handler is named Steve and the boy is (was?) named Steve too and they _seem_ connected somehow, but…

But that doesn’t make _sense._

He grits his teeth and hunches further over his knees, trying to drag up the memory of Hydra’s file on his handler. Bits and pieces come to mind, but nothing useful and he fights to keep from growling in frustration. Anything but the basics of his hander’s file has probably been wiped away a long time ago, and now, despite _all_ his malfunctioning, he has no idea if there is a reason to connect his six-foot-two handler with the five-foot-four boy in his brain.

(How he knows how tall the boy is, he does not know.)

oOo

He doesn’t sleep much the rest of the night. He’s not quite certain if he’s slept the required three hours (but his handler had _said_ that he wouldn’t be punished for sleeping the wrong amount so…) Once his handler gets up for the morning, he finds himself staring after him, trying to connect him with the small boy in his dream.

Handler-Rogers gives him his pain medication and he can’t help wondering if he really deserves it. Doctor Banner had said that the pain meds were supposed to help him function better, but he’s malfunctioning so much it’s almost _pointless_ – he can’t _possibly_ be a good asset like this and as soon as his handler finds out how much he’s failing then he’ll probably take the pills _away_ —

His hand clenches under the table and he keeps his head dutifully bowed as he waits for his handler to finish with breakfast. He can be a good asset, he can, he can, he can—

After breakfast, his handler doesn’t take him back to the gym for more training (and the Asset can’t help worrying that he’d somehow done something wrong last time and that his handler is finally realising how defective he actually is.) Instead, his handler lets him sit quietly while he listens to a progress update from the Avengers and continues to write in his journal.

For lunch His handler makes him a vegetable smoothie. “I figured that you were tired of the fruit ones,” he explains as he hands it over, and the Asset has no idea how to respond. His handler’s smoothies are a million times better than the rations he’d gotten from Hydra, and he’s pretty sure he will _never_ get tired of eating them. But trying a whole new set of flavours is _also_ good, so he isn’t complaining with the change of menu.

After lunch is when things go a little bit sideways.

“I have to go to a… to a doctor’s appointment,” his handler says, not quite looking at him as they stand face to face in the common room. “I should be gone for about an hour and a half.”

The Asset stands carefully at attention and tries not to react. He’s acutely aware that he will be left alone once his handler leaves and the foreign idea is a little intimidating. (Another part of him sits up and quietly worries because his handler had said he needed to go to the _doctor_ and he’s always getting sick all the time—)

— _he tries to swallow back the knot of nerves in his stomach as he unlocks the door and ducks into the apartment, his ears straining for the quiet sounds of Steve’s breathing. He always feels bad leaving Steve when he’s sick like this, a part of him certain that one day he will just come home and find him pale and stone cold – but they_ need _the money if they want to pay for medicine and food – so inevitably he always leaves, praying to God that Steve will at least feel well enough to drink the water he left for him—_

“—’re free to do whatever you want in the tower as long as you don’t get hurt,” his handler says, and he fights down a wave of panic because his malfunction had _almost made him miss an order._ “If you need anything, ask JARVIS,” his handler finishes, and he nods, his eyes darting around the room before he can stop them.

“Confirmed,” he says stiffly, his hands tightening behind his back as he watches his handler back away and leave, the sudden silence of the empty tower almost deafening.

He swallows and tries not to think too hard about the fact that he’s _pretty_ sure his latest malfunction had been about the small boy again, but _also_ somehow connected to his handler. Which doesn’t make any sense because his handler is _big_ and the boy is _small_ —

— _“I thought you were dead.”_

_“I thought you were smaller.”—_

He winces and squeezes his eyes shut, dragging a hand up to press against his temple. His malfunctions seem to be getting worse the more he thinks about it and he _doesn’t know what to do._ If this continues then he will be compromised for sure and _that is not acceptable._

“Sergeant Barnes?” He flinches and darts his eyes up to the ceiling. “Are you quite alright?” JARVIS asks.

“Affirmative,” he grits out, clenching his teeth and fisting his hands by his side. It’s not entirely a lie, he feels dizzy and his chest hurts but he’s _fine_ because he _has to be._ He’s the _asset._

He drags in a shaky breath and tugs restlessly at his shirt while he darts his eyes around the room, trying desperately not to think of the small boy. Something about him is _important,_ he knows it is, but he doesn’t know _why_ and he can’t seem to _stop malfunctioning_ —

He stills, his eyes focused blankly on the middle distance in front of him as he thinks. He needs to deal with this, he realises, he needs to deal with whoever this boy is, if he wants to stop malfunctioning and be a good asset. His jaw tightens in resolution and he nods slowly to himself. He can be a good asset, once he figures this out, he will be better and maybe his handler will keep training him.

Of course, he still has to figure out _how_ to fix this. He doesn’t know much about the small boy, he doesn’t even know if he’s _real –_

(He knows that he’s skin and bones on a good day and always sick and his mom’s name is—)

He sucks in a breath and flicks his eyes up to the ceiling before immediately discarding the idea of asking JARVIS. The thought of asking if there is ‘a smaller Steve’ somewhere seems ridiculous and he isn’t quite sure if it would even be acceptable in the first place.

(If you need anything, ask JARVIS, his handler had said.)

Well, if he _isn’t_ asking JARVIS, then he needs another plan, because he needs to figure this out and he only has an hour and a half until his handler gets back. He blinks. His handler and the boy are connected (or at least he _thinks_ they are, they _might_ be) so… so his handler – if they _are_ connected – then his handler probably has _some_ sort of evidence for that.

He nods slowly. Yes, that makes sense. His handler probably has _something_ on it, and all he has to do is look—

He finds himself moving and in the elevator before he can catch up with the rest of his train of thought and he pushes the button for his handler’s room with only a vague idea of what his plan is. He figures it out though when he finds himself standing several feet back from the door to his handler’s room. He stares, his stomach churning.

If his handler and the boy _are_ connected, then his handler probably has some sort of information on it, and that information is most likely to be found _in his room_. But… his chest constricts, and he swallows nervously.

But… going into his handler’s room is…

A tremor runs through him and he stumbles back a step. He’s not supposed to do that, he’s not supposed to— if he gets caught then that will be _bad._

 _“You’re free to do whatever you want in the tower as long as you don’t get hurt,”_ his handler had said. _“You can go anywhere in these rooms freely,”_ his handler had said once, when he was first being orientated to the tower.

Somehow, he doesn’t think that those liberal orders include this.

But…

But.

 _Technically._ Technically, he _does_ have permission. And, and, if he is fast enough, then he can be in and out before his handler even comes back – his handler doesn’t even have to _know_ —

Of course, JARVIS can always tell him – and he probably will, and then the Asset will be punished but— but wouldn’t it… be… worth it? If he could figure out if the boy is _actually_ related to his handler in some way? That way he would _know_ and— and punishments don’t last forever, he could handle whatever it is, as long as—

As long as he learns about the boy, it will be fine. And, if he _doesn’t_ find anything in his handler’s room, then he will know for sure that he and the boy are _not_ connected, so it will _still_ be worth it. And if he _does_ find something…

If he does…

He swallows and grits his teeth determinedly, taking a step forward. He lifts his hand and it shakes slightly as he slowly, slowly, pushes the door open. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the companion story to this, I was very careful with the way that Steve gave Bucky his orders so that Bucky would be able to interpret them in the way he needed to justify his venture. 
> 
> I also like writing the scenes with Bucky's nightmare and him reacting to Steve's training. I thought they were pretty important :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset goes into his handler's room.

In all honesty he expects JARVIS to call him out before he even gets two steps into his handler’s room. There’s _no way_ this is allowed, even with his handler’s vague orders, and _surely_ JARVIS will say something. JARVIS does nothing though, staying silent as he edges his way into the room, his heart pounding as he very carefully pushes the door back into its original half-open position. His eyes scan the room in front of him and he has no idea where to even begin. He’s never even been in his handler’s room before, the space in front of him as foreign as uncharted waters.

The layout is simple enough though, a desk and window on the side, a bed in the middle and a closet door on the far side of the room. He sweeps his eyes over the few features of the room, trying to decide where to start and cataloguing their original state so that he can be sure to leave the room _exactly_ how he found it.

His breath stutters in his chest as he takes a hesitant step towards the desk by the window, his shoulders tense and his heart pounding as he waits for JARVIS to speak up. He doesn’t, and a second later he finds himself standing at his handler’s desk with no idea what he’s even actually looking for.

What would proof of the small boy even _look_ like?

He doesn’t know, but he’s already gotten this far and it’s too late to go back – he’s _already in the room_ , he’s bound to get punished anyways – he might as well continue.

He reaches with his metal hand and pulls open the first drawer of the desk. Inside he finds a few loose pencils and pen, a packet of drawing pencils and, underneath it all, a black sketchbook. His eyes are drawn to the sketchbook and he reaches for it, sliding it out carefully, wincing a little when the pencils on top rattle as they roll to the side. He darts his eyes up in a quick perimeter check before focusing back on the book in hand.

The cover is hard, and he brings his right hand up to rub his thumb over the textured surface for a moment before cautiously flipping it open to the first page. There’s a half-finished sketch of what might be the view from the bedroom window, but it’s hard to tell, the lines faint and messy.

The next page holds a similar half-finished image of someone’s face, the next, a drawing that seemed to have been almost finished before suddenly being half-erased. His brow furls at the lack of art in the sketchbook. For some reason he feels there should be more, sketches squeezed into the margins and corners because every bit of space needs to count—

— _they lay sprawled on their stomachs on the floor, shoulder to shoulder as they flip through the newest Sears catalogue, playing the ‘if I had a million dollars’ game. Steve points at a typewriter and they dissolve into giggles at the mere thought of spending a whole forty-four dollars for fun._

 _They flip to the next page and Steve’s eyes go soft as they catch sight of a leather-bound notebook. He stares at it too and wishes that he really_ did _have a million dollars, then he could buy the whole catalogue probably and then—_

The Asset blinks, his hands tightening unconsciously on the sketchbook as he grounds himself back to his handler’s room. That malfunction had been about the small boy again. (He had been smaller too— and he'd had _short_ hair again.) He breathes in and glances down at the book in his hands before carefully putting it back, doing his best to arrange the pencils on top like they had been before.

He’s not sure if the sketchbook had been what he is looking for, but it certainly had been _something,_ making him feel a little better about the risks he’s taking. He cycles in a shaky breath and scans the room again, half expecting his handler or JARVIS to suddenly appear and reprimand him. Nothing happens and he swallows before moving on to the next drawer of the desk.

The rest of the desk isn’t very helpful. The bottom two drawers contain mostly files of Avengers reports and he somehow knows that the small boy won’t be mentioned in any of those. With a sigh he shuts the last drawer and looks around the room, trying to figure out where to go next. His handler’s room doesn’t actually have… a lot of… stuff. His brow furls at that for some reason (if _he_ had a room then he would fill it with everything he wanted in it) and he scowls slightly at the blank walls before focusing on the bedside cabinet near the middle of the room.

There is very little actually _on_ the cabinet besides a lamp, a clock and phone charger, but there _is_ a drawer, so he goes over to investigate. Inside is a sleek black laptop, and for a moment he considers hacking it, wondering if perhaps there might be some files on the boy inside.

Hacking his handler’s laptop feels like too much of an overstep though (JARVIS would most _definitely_ not stand idly by if he did that) and he doesn’t have a lot of time, so ultimately he just puts the thing back, his eyes coming up to rest on the only other thing in the room that could possibly yield what he’s looking for; the closet.

He edges up to it and pulls the door open as silently as possible. Inside are rows of carefully hung shirts and pants and a basket sits on the floor, filled with rolls of socks and underwear. He runs his hand through the perfectly pressed shirts and his brows furl as, at the very end of the closet, almost completely hidden in shadow, his hands brush across the rough wool of a brown uniform.

He squints and pushes the other hangers out of the way, wincing a little as they screech in protest, before pulling the uniform closer to him. It’s neatly pressed, like everything else, but stiff, like it hasn’t been worn in a long time, and he runs his hand over the golden buttons on the front, sweeping his eyes over the pins and medals that decorate the lapel. Something about this uniform…

_—Peg-- stops them on their way into camp, her mouth pressing into a thin line as she surveys their weary state. “Press is here,” she says shortly with a nod back towards camp and around her the Commandos let out groans of exasperation and Steve sighs, running a hand through dries mud in his hair._

_“Your dress uniform is ready,” Peg-- says, eyeing the splashes of mud and blood stains on Steve’s uniform. “Along with a bucket of water and a shaving kit. We’ll have to sneak around the back.”_

_Steve nods tiredly and Bucky swipes irritably at the dirt on his face, swallowing down a growl as he follows Pegg- off the path. Always with the stupid cameras – and of course_ Captain America _can’t actually be seen as a_ battle-weary soldier, _just a heroic one, so every time with this stupid charade – can’t they leave him alone for_ one blasted day—

He sways slightly as he comes out of the malfunction. That one… that one had been about his handler – and a woman and another group of men, the Commandos…? He shakes his head, his hand pulling away from the – the dress uniform. He stops and stares at it a second longer, turning the new vocabulary over in his head. It’s dangerous to pay too much attention to malfunctions but— but it _is_ a dress uniform, isn’t it? So…

He opens his mouth almost ready to ask JARVIS to confirm his theory before he cringes, remembering that he probably doesn’t deserve to ask JARVIS anything right now with how bad he’s being.

 _(If you need anything, ask JARVIS,_ his handler had said.)

He shakes his head again and takes a step back, sweeping the closet for anything else that might be useful. There’s a shelf over top of the rack of clothes, and his eyes catch on a small cardboard box sitting almost at the back of the shelf. He eyes it for a moment before gritting his teeth and reaching for it.

He’s already gone this far…

It isn’t very heavy, and he pulls it down easily, stepping back slightly in surprise at how light it is. It’s a little dusty and he finds himself wiping off the top with his flesh hand as he sets it down on the floor. He stays there for a second, half-crouching and staring at it as his heartbeat kicks up a notch.

 _This is it,_ he realises. Either he finds something, or he doesn’t, but this is the last place to look. His hands shake slightly as he pulls at the flaps and he finds himself holding his breath as he looks in. Inside sit two notebooks on top of a few folders and a collection of papers. The air inside the box smells old, and he instinctively moves extra carefully as he reaches in, pulling out the two notebooks first.

They’re old, the pages stiff and slightly warped from time, dirt and water. They’re both small, almost pocket sized, and their covers are blank, so it isn’t until he opens them that he figures out what they are. The first one is a journal, the name _Steve G. Rogers, 1943_ printed in faded pencil on the first page. The cursive is faint and hard to read, faded in places, thanks to rainwater and mud spots and the pages crinkle as he begins to turn them, his eyes catching on random phrases written in familiar handwriting.

 _-wanted to give me a team, but I’d rather go with people I_ trust _. Besides, their idea of an ‘all-American team’ probably isn’t the same as mine—_

_-got a new shield from Howard, still figuring out how to throw it right—_

_-rains all the time here, never going to dry my socks out in time—_

_-spoke to Peggy over the radio, says she’s got a new mission for us—_

_-getting sick of eating these rations all the time, I can never eat enough and it’s always the same—_

_-Got a letter from Ma Barnes today she—_

_—says Becca’s pregnant!” Steve says, his eyes wide as he stares down at the letter in his hands._

_“What?” He darts up and snatches up the letter, his eyes scanning the page. He feels a smile break out over his face and he looks up at Steve. “Guess we better win the war fast then,” he says, a warm feeling welling up in his chest. “There’s no_ way _I’m missing this.”—_

He comes back to himself, the notebook a blur before his eyes. He blinks, sucking in a breath and scanning the date for the latest entry, _Sept. 23, 1944._ He glances at the names again, Ma Barnes and Becca. Those names… he brushes his thumb over the faded pencil, not quite sure what he’s looking for. For some reason… there’s a deep quiet part of him that aches when he thinks about Becca’s baby and questions pour into his mind. How old would it be now? When was it born? Did she have anymore children?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t really know who Becca even _is,_ but… but if he thinks about it _really_ hard, he can almost see—

— _someone standing in white, holding hands with someone else. He stands watching them, trying his best not to cry and be all mushy, but Steve is watching him with a knowing look—_

He blinks away the image and breathes in shakily, setting the journal down. (That malfunction had had the small boy again.) He grits his teeth and moves to pick up the next book, his mind spinning. He keeps seeing the small boy, but he doesn’t know _why_.

He flips open the book and finds it to be a sketchbook. This one is more like what he’d been expecting before. Drawing and doodles fill every available space, and, although the pages are a little warped and the markings a little faded, something about this sketchbook feels _right,_ the cramped images leaving him more relaxed as he scans the pages. They crinkle dryly as he turns them carefully, taking in each sketch. He flips away from the shaded picture of a flower and his eyes widen as he stares down at the most recent image. It’s…

It’s… it’s him.

He stares. It’s him from the malfunctions, his hair short and his head bowed as he cleans a gun he can vaguely remember from a previous malfunction. He can feel his right hand shake slightly as he sits frozen, trying to understand the picture in front of him. The… him… in the picture is wearing a uniform that he’s pretty sure he’s never worn before (he’s _also_ pretty sure it’s blue and that he’d been wearing in in one of his latest malfunctions.)

He doesn’t have a metal arm in the picture. His thumb comes up to trace the pencil lines of the drawing. (He… hadn’t had a metal arm in most of his malfunctions either.) He… he doesn’t understand why his handler would have drawn something like this, why his handler would have drawn the man he is in his malfunctions—how— those aren’t—

He sits back slightly and carefully sets the open sketchbook on the floor next to him, his eyes darting to it for a moment before he shakes his head and looks back towards the box. He reaches inside and slowly pulls out the rest of the files and packets of paper, setting them in a pile on the floor next to him. His hands shake slightly and a feeling like… a feeling almost like excitement wells up in him as he looks over the papers. This feels like what he’s looking for.

He grabs the first file and pulls it away from the rest, flipping it open. The symbol of a winged bird stares back at him, surrounded by a ring of words reading ‘Strategic Scientific Reserve’. He traces the symbol for a moment before looking over the rest of what the front page has to offer.

‘ **Project Rebirth’** it proclaims under a red stamp reading **TOP SECRET.** He flips the page over and freezes, his eyes fixed on a small picture paperclipped to the top of the next page. It’s… it’s… Steve. He sucks in a breath and pulls the picture away from the paperclip with a shaky hand, staring. It’s Steve. It’s _small_ Steve.

The picture is old, the lighting and colours brown, but he doesn’t really care, he only has eyes for the small blond boy shown squinting at something off camera. It _is_ small Steve; his shoulders are narrow, and his dog tags hang loosely off his body and he’s— he’s _real_. 

He sucks in a breath and sets the picture down carefully so as to not accidentally crease it as a wave of relief rushes through him. The boy is real, he doesn’t know much else, but he _is_ real. He breathes in carefully, trying to calm himself a little before he turns back to the file.

 _Steven G. Rogers,_ it reads before listing a birthday, enlistment number, height and a whole host of ailments. _He was always sick,_ he remembers dazedly. _He was, he was always sick._ He flips that page over with a trembling hand to find handwritten notes from someone named Dr. Erskine. It’s written in ink, so it isn’t faded, but the loopy cursive is hard to decipher.

S _uper soldier serum,_ he manages to make out as he squints at the notes. A cold fear rushes through him at the words and he flips the page over abruptly, clenching his teeth. His shoulder flares in phantom pain, and he knows it’s phantom because he still has Doctor Banner’s medicine so it _shouldn’t_ hurt, no matter what his brain thinks.

After a few moments he manages to focus enough to look back down at the new pages. It’s more of Erskine’s notes and he flips through them quickly, not willing to try to read them quite yet. The notes end, and the file falls open onto another picture.

His breath stalls. It's… his handler. His eyes sweep over the image, his heart pounding. In front of him his handler stands shirtless beside a string of numbers on a white wall measuring his height as 6’2. He darts his eyes between the numbers and his handler’s face a few times before shakily sliding the picture out of the file. He sets the file down distractedly and settles the new picture beside that of small Steve.

They’re different. Of course they are. His handler is almost a foot taller and probably at least a hundred pounds heavier but… he can’t deny that there’s something in their faces…

— _What happened to you?”_

_“I joined the army.” Steve is distracted, avoiding the question as he glances around, searching for an escape route._

_“Did it hurt?”_

_“A little.”—_

That was a lie. He doesn’t know exactly how he knows that, but he _knows_ that that had been a lie. He swallows and glances away from the pair of pictures, his eyes catching on the last file from the box. He reaches for it, trying to ignore how his hands shake and how tight his chest feels.

He pulls the file towards himself and opens it, blinking a little in surprise when he finds it to be full of aged photographs. They’re obviously old, the images faded and less clear than anything from nowadays, but they feel familiar in a way, and he rifles through them, his eyes flicking back and forth as he looks them over.

The same people show up in most of them, soldiers in uniforms and helmets and— and— him. He hardly dares breathe as he brushes his fingers over the old paper. His own face stares up at him from among a group of other men, their arms around each other’s shoulders as they smile into the camera. His hair is short in the picture and he’s wearing the uniform that he knows is blue even though the picture is brown.

His eyes dart over the other men in the photo and he tries to remember who they are. Their names sit temptingly on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t quite… He blinks. He’s had malfunctions about them before, he realises, his eyes widening. Yes. He _has_. And they had been called—

— _Howling Commandos?” G--- reaches for his tin mug and takes a swig. “I like it.”—_

The Howling Commandos. Yes, that’s what it was! He fights down a laugh of triumph and can’t help grinning because he’d remembered, he’d—

He freezes, his eyes staring blankly at the pictures in front of him. _Remembered…?_ His heart begins to pound loudly in his chest as he turns over the word in his brain. Are his malfunctions… Are they…? He sucks in a breath and reaches jerkily over to move the picture of the Commandos to the side so that he can see the photo under it. It's a picture of him again, him and the Commandos crowding around his handler and some sort of car as he outlines a plan.

Had he… Had his handler… been his handler before? Are— are his malfunctions… _memories_? His stomach twists and he can feel himself shaking, his eyes darting over the papers around him. His malfunctions are _bad_ , he _knows_ that but – but… what if he _had_ worked with his handler in the past? Hydra would have wiped it away after whatever the mission had been but…

His fingers drop down to ghost over the photos. But it’s right _here_ , obviously he _had_ worked with his handler and these… Commandos before, and— his eyes dart up to the pair of photos of his handler and the small boy— for whatever reason this boy _did_ seem to be connected to his handler, so his malfunctions aren’t _wrong._

Maybe… maybe they really _are_ memories.

Of course, that would still technically _be_ a malfunction, since he isn’t _supposed_ to remember. But they don’t have a chair to wipe his memories here so… so it would make sense then right? That he would start remembering his past missions, especially if they had been with his current handler.

He’s busy turning over this new idea in his head when his ears pick up the faint sound of the door to the room being pushed open. His heart spasms in his chest and his breath stalls as his head snaps up to see his _handler_ stepping into the room.

Instantly every half-hearted excused he’d given himself for this venture melts away like tissue paper under a jet of water.

He’d gone into his handler’s room.

He’d gone into his handler’s room and gone _through his stuff_.

How could he have decided that this was in any way acceptable? How could he _possibly_ have thought that this would be _allowed_ and that he wasn’t going to get caught and that his handler wasn’t going to punish him—

“Bucky—?” his handler says, taking a step forward and he flinches back instinctively, barely feeling it as his back hits the wall behind him. His arms raise up automatically in front of his face in a useless defence and he can feel his heart pounding relentlessly in his chest as his breath burst sharply in and out of his mouth, his eyes fixed on his handler in the doorway.

In front of him, his handler stills before closing his eyes, and the Asset stares at him in frozen terror. There’s no _way_ his handler will let this go. The evidence of his crime is _all around him_ — not to mention that it had been the first time his handler had trusted him enough to leave him alone, and he’d gone and done _this._ His handler is never going to trust him again and he’s going to be in so much trouble—

His handler opens his eyes and he fights to keep from shivering away, the wall pressing into his back as his handler breathes in carefully, probably absolutely _furious_ with him and trying to control himself long enough to figure out the best punishment.

His handler— his handler crouches, the submissive move completely incomputable in the Asset’s panicked brain, his eyes follow him down uncomprehendingly as he continues to breathe in sharp and frantic.

“Hey,” his handler says, and he flinches away, despite the gentle tone. He can barely hear him over the rushing in his ears and his rapid breathing and that isn’t— that isn’t _good._ He’s panicking and making it worse and that _isn’t allowed._

“I…I know you’re scared,” his handler says, cutting into his spiralling thoughts. “But you’re not in trouble. I’m not mad, no one’s going to hurt you.”

He darts his eyes around the room, taking in the papers on the floor and the box beside him and everything else that JARVIS will probably tell him later and his handler’s words don’t make any _sense_ because he’d gone into his handler’s _room._

“You’re not in trouble,” his handler repeats, crossing his legs where he sits, carefully setting his journal on the floor beside him. He hadn’t noticed the journal before now, and he doesn’t know why his handler has it with him (or why he’d needed to take it with him to his doctor’s appointment) but part of him cringes at the sight, remembering how he’d skimmed through the other journal that he had found in the box.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” his handler continues gently and wrongly. “You’re not in trouble.” His head feels light as he stares at his handler and he ducks his chin, his shoulders pressing into the wall behind him as he tries to regulate his breathing.

His handler isn’t making any _sense._ He’d been bad, and he deserves to be punished and he— and he can’t _breathe._

“Bucky,” his handler says, and he tries to focus on his words, desperate not to miss any orders right now. “I need your help,” his handler says. “Can you find me something that’s blue? You helped me with the colours before, remember? Can you find something that’s blue?”

 _Colours?_ He doesn’t understand, but he recognises an order when he hears one, and he latches onto it frantically. Maybe if he follows orders properly then his handler will be more lenient with his punishment. He will do whatever it takes, as long as they don’t wipe him. He doesn’t want to forget this. Whatever happens, it will be worth it as long as he’s allowed to remember this.

He darts his eyes frantically around the room, relief sweeping through him when he spots something blue. “Blanket,” he bursts out between breaths, his eyes zeroing in on his handler’s bedding.

“Good,” his handler says, the word like a balm. “Can you find me something brown?”

He names the first thing he sees. “Box,” he blurts out, wincing slightly as he reminds his handler of what he’s done.

His handler only nods. “Can you find me something grey?”

They continue like that for a while, his handler naming a colour and the Asset doing his best to respond. His handler praises him every time, even when he repeats things he’s already said, and he can feel his breathing and heartbeat slowly starting to calm down as he moves past his initial panic.

By the end of it, he’s more slumped than pressed against the wall and his whole body feels like it’s shaking as he works on breathing and waiting for his handler to make a move. He stays frozen as his handler starts slowly edging towards him, his legs still crossed, and his shoulders hunched as though trying to make himself smaller.

He tenses slightly once his handler gets to be a few feet away from him, and his handler stops, his hands open and to the side. “What are you looking at?” he asks quietly, and the Asset can feel his heartbeat speed up at the question.

He holds absolutely still, breathing in as shallowly as possible as he eyes his handler and tries to figure out what he wants. His handler doesn’t look mad at all, he looks calm even, and that isn’t something the Asset is prepared for.

“I’m not mad,” his handler says inexplicably. “You can look at it, I was just curious what you found.” He continues to stare at his handler, his mind spinning as he analyses his situation. His handler _says_ he's not in trouble, but that simply can't be possible. He flicks his eyes up to his handler, trying to figure him out. He… doesn’t know what he wants exactly, or why, but right now… it's probably best to play along.

(And maybe, _maybe,_ he’ll get some more answers.)

He shifts forward just slightly, an air of caution outlining his every movement as he eyes his handler, searching for any signs of disapproval. His handler doesn’t move, only watching him as he edges closer to the picture of small Steve and nudges it gently with his finger.

“You were… you wer’ small,” he mumbles, hunching behind the strands of his hair as he speaks. Surely, _surely_ this is not _allowed._ His handler only nods and the Asset feels a small spark of relief that he’d been right. Small Steve _is_ his handler. He brushes his hand over the other picture of big Steve. “Then you wer’ big,” he rasps out, darting his eyes up to his handler.

His handler’s eyes widen slightly as they drop down to the new photo and he nods again. “Yes,” he says quietly. “I was small.” He nods his head at the first picture. “And then a war happened and… my friend got taken away to fight. And I couldn’t do anything because I was too small.”

— _“Why’re you so keen to fight? There’s so many important jobs.”_

_“I’m not going to sit in a factory Buck, come on.”—_

“Then a man came to me and told me he could give me a chance,” his handler continues, pulling the Asset back to the present. “A chance for me to go and fight instead of staying behind and waiting for my friend to— to die.”

His handler swallows painfully and the Asset stares at him, his eyes wide as he soaks in this new information. He hadn’t been wrong. The boy and his handler _are_ connected and— and he _knew_ them, he did—

“They gave me something, a serum,” his handler says, and the Asset glances unconsciously towards Dr Erskine’s notes. “And then I wasn’t small,” his handler continues. “And I wasn’t sick… and then I went to go fight and find my friend.” He looks up at him. “And that’s what I’ve been doing ever since.”

Something heavy and important seems to fall between them and the Asset can’t help wondering if his handler had ever found his friend. Had that been one of their missions? His eyes drop down to land on the sketchbook and photos of him that he barely recognises. Those _are_ him, aren’t they? Even without the arm and the hair, he’d— he’d _known_ his handler before. He had.

“I…” The word comes out without a thought and he flinches back. He hasn’t used that word in a long time, and it probably isn’t the right one, but he can’t stop thinking about how close he seems to have been with his handler and the other Commandos before. He has to know. He has to know if he’s right.

“I…” His voice drops down into a whisper but he keeps going because he’s _already gone this far_ , he might as well continue. “I—I knew you,” he manages, his eyes snapping up to watch his handler’s reaction. He clenches his jaw unconsciously because he _knows_ he’s right, even if they wipe it away later, right now he _knows_ he knew his handler before. He did, he did, he did—

His handler sucks in a shaky breath and he almost flinches at the sound. “Yes,” his handler says, his voice strained. “Yes, you do— you did.”

He freezes at the admission, because part of him still hadn’t been expecting to be told the truth. He’d been prepared for screams and pain and the chair but not… this.

But… then again… he relaxes slightly. Things seemed to be… different… with this handler. And judging from those pictures and his various malfunctions (…memories?), things may have _always_ been different with this handler.

He nods determinedly at his handler and slumps a little, his body taking the chance to decide that he is now absolutely _exhausted_. His handler scans him for a second before running a hand through his hair and the Asset watches him carefully, still prepared to have everything fall out from under him at the last second.

“I think…” his handler says slowly, flashing him a reassuring half-smile. “I think we could both use some tea.” He makes a small gesture at the paper on the floor. “Why don’t you clean this up, and I’ll get something started.”

His eyes follow his handler as he stands up carefully and takes a step back, his shoulders still hunched as he heads for the door. Back on the floor, the Asset slowly uncurls, his eyes fixed a little numbly on his handler’s retreating form. His hands tremble slightly as he begins to carefully gather up the papers around him.

He sets them gently inside the box and his ears can hear the faint sounds of his handler in the other room as he begins preparing tea for them. An inexplicable rush of tears floods his eyes at the sound, and he sits hunched over the box, fighting to keep from blinking so as to not let them fall.

He breathes in shakily and dabs at his eyes with his shirt sleeve, swallowing against a growing tightness in his throat. He hasn’t cried in… he hasn’t cried in a _long_ time, and he isn’t planning to start now, but he can’t help feeling grateful and a little overwhelmed after everything.

He’d gone in looking for answers and he’d found them, and his handler isn’t even _mad._ He huffs out a breath and stands up in one smooth motion, lifting the box with him to put back on the shelf where it belongs.

He steps back and dabs at his eyes once more, making sure they’re completely dry before turning around to go and join his handler in the kitchen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter!  
> Steve and Bucky had some important words between them, and Bucky had a few revelations, but he still doesn't quite understand what he is to Steve. (You can't blame him though, he's used to working with a completely different framework.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset is introduced to several new things.

Even though his handler hadn’t seemed upset by his recent escapades, the Asset can’t help being slightly on edge as he waits for the other shoe to drop.

It doesn’t though, his handler feeds him like usual, his blankets are still there when he goes to bed, and in the morning his handler doesn’t even hesitate when he hands over his pain medication. He can’t help marveling a little at that. With Hydra, disobedience on a level like he had shown yesterday would have been met harshly, with a stark loss of privileges as well as a few other more… corporal punishments. Here though, his handler hardly seems to even _mind_ that he’d gone into his room. It’s frankly baffling, and the Asset isn’t really sure how to respond.

Later in the day though, after lunch, his handler motions for him to follow into the elevator and orders JARVIS to take them down to Stark’s lab. He freezes up in dread at the words, but another part of him relaxes. Whatever punishment his handler has planned for him, they can now finally get it _over_ with, and then everything will be fine.

Of course, he keeps forgetting that his handler refuses to be a _normal_ handler, because there _doesn’t_ seem to be any sort of punishment waiting for him down in the lab. Instead, his handler seems to want to introduce him to Stark’s robot…pets.

“I think they get lonely by themselves,” is his handler’s only explanation as he pets the claw arm of one of the robots. The Asset tries not to show his confusion as he carefully reaches over to pet the extended claw of the other robot, this one marked with a bolded ‘U’. “Tony made them when he was a kid, I think,” his handler continues, a look of light amusement on his face as his robot, the one marked DUM-E, rolls amiably away, only to return a moment later with a wrench clutched in its claw.

His handler accepts the wrench easily, setting it down on the table next to him while DUM-E rushes off to search for something else in a sort of reverse game of fetch. The Asset eyes the robot beside him and can’t help feeling like it’s… looking at the wrench on the table. It doesn’t have _eyes_ , but still…

He swallows and reaches slowly for the wrench, his eyes on his handler in case this turns out to be unacceptable. For his part, his handler keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the other robot, and the Asset snags the wrench without issue. He stares at it in his hand for a second, a little stunned by his own actions, before hesitantly offering it to U. The robot in question lets out a squeal-like beep and grabs the wrench, bursting off with a whirl of wheels to replace the wrench back where it had come from.

The strange fetch-like game continues like that, DUM-E offering various items to Handler-Rogers, who then accepts them and sets them aside for the Asset to offer to U to put away. The robots seem amused and the Asset finds himself relaxing as it progresses and it becomes apparent that no punishment is lurking in the labs today.

“Captain Rogers,” JARVIS cuts in suddenly and the Asset cannot hide his jerk of surprise. Thankfully, his handler _also_ flinches, his hands clenching into fists for a second before relaxing again, so the reaction probably isn’t abnormal.

“Yes JARVIS?” his handler replies, holding up his hand at a questioning beep from DUM-E.

“The Avengers are returning,” JARVIS informs him. “They will arrive at the tower in approximately fifteen minutes.”

A smile breaks out over his handler’s face and his shoulders relax. The Asset finds himself relaxing as well at his handler’s relief, only now becoming aware of how tense his handler had been since his teammates had left.

Handler-Rogers gives DUM-E one final pat before standing up and turning towards the Asset. “We should go up to meet them,” he says, and the Asset nods, offering his own hesitant pat to U before standing up to follow his handler to the elevator.

The Avengers arrive with a flurry of energy that the Asset hadn’t realised he’d been missing until now. Everyone seems tired, but unharmed, and Stark rushes down to his lab to lock up some sort of mythical scepter while the rest of them work on unloading the quinjet.

He participates, bringing in various crates of supplies to be put away. The work isn’t hard or particularly backbreaking, but he braces himself every time he goes to lift something, since the crates are heavy and would usually strain his arm. Every time though, he’s surprised when no pain follows. He sets the crate down next to the pile that Barton is sorting through and unconsciously rotates his shoulder, still not used to Banner’s meds.

The Avengers have a celebratory dinner once everything is settled, and they all meet up in the common room to mingle and eat food. The concept is a little foreign to the Asset, since, if Hydra had ever celebrated after missions, he definitely was not invited, so he isn’t quite sure how to act. Thankfully, his handler makes him his food like usual (he tenses up getting food from the freezer as usual _too_ ), and the other Avengers don’t seem to mind if he just stands there.

Or, at least he’s pretty sure they don’t mind. They keep… approaching him. Not exactly overtly, but steadily, throughout the night, every one of them – except for Stark – ending up beside him for some reason or another.

Wilson is the first one, he comes with a can of something in his hand and asks if he’s ever had ‘soda’ before. The Asset shakes his head a little mystified and Wilson offers the can.

“It’s Coke,” he says, as if that means something. “I thought that’d be a safe pick.” The Asset stares at him for a second, before glancing over at his handler. Handler-Rogers is busy arguing with Barton over some sort of video game and when he looks back, Wilson is still standing there holding out the can, a mild expression of patience on his face. The Asset eyes him for a second longer before reaching out carefully and accepting the can.

“Pull the tab up like this.” Wilson mimes a pulling motion with his hands and the Asset narrows his eyes as he analyses the drink in his hand. He slowly reaches over and pulls up the tab Wilson had mentioned, almost jerking in surprise when the can opens with a pop and a hiss of gas.

Thankfully, he had been holding the can with his right hand, and he therefore does _not_ crush it in his grip and he’s able to now smell the sugary tang of pop coming from it. Wilson gives him a smile and the Asset quietly brings the drink to his lips, blinking a little at the carbonation.

It’s sweet, and fizzy, and he swallows his mouthful a few times, trying to get used to the bubbly feeling. After a moment, he takes another sip and decides that he likes it. It tastes nothing like the smoothies his handler makes, but it’s still slightly familiar for some reason.

— _“We can get one if we share,” Steve says, his head bowed as he counts his coins, he feet dangling off the bar stool—_

Wilson steps away and the Asset swallows more of the drink as he tries to analyse his most recent malfunction— memory. Malfunction-memory. He huffs out a small gust of air through his nose. He still isn’t quite sure what to think of his… incidents. With Hydra they would most definitely be malfunctions, but he _thinks_ they’re real. Memories from the past that have been wiped away.

He doesn’t know yet if these… malfunctions/memories are bad _here_ , but… they’re showing him his handler so they can’t be _that_ bad. (He’s still a little confused on why he and his handler often seem… younger in the malfunctions/memories though. He hadn’t realised he’d gone on so _many_ missions with his handler.)

He wonders why they had stopped. Why Hydra had had to reintroduce them.

He gets distracted from his wondering when Doctor Banner comes up to ask him how his meds are doing, and Banner is soon followed by Barton who, for some reason, feels the need to show him a picture of a squirrel he’d seen during the mission.

“There was a forest around the Sokovian base,” he says as he holds up his phone and lets the Asset look it over, the animal indeed seeming to be perched on a branch. “Do you have a favorite animal?” The Asset looks up from the picture and blinks slowly at him. He doesn’t think he’s ever been asked that question before. “I like dogs,” Barton continues undeterred, pocketing his phone. “Cap probably like something patriotic like bald-eagles or bison or something—”

“Cats,” he cuts in without thinking, suddenly absolutely certain that his handler had wanted a cat at some point.

Barton stares at him and the Asset tries not to tense and accidently dent the metal can in his hand. “You or Steve?” he asks calmly after a moment. The Asset swallows and nods his head jerkily towards his handler, shrinking back slightly as he does so. In front of him, Barton’s whole face lights up and he flashes him a smile. “Perfect,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “His birthday is going to be _so_ much easier this year.”

The Asset doesn’t have a response for that (except he can’t help wondering at the word birthday. He can understand the general concept of course, but the term seems…important.) Barton doesn’t explain further though, eventually shifting away and heading for the communal pizza boxes in the kitchen, leaving him alone to think over what he’d heard.

Romanoff waits a good 10 minutes before replacing Barton, her route casual and calculated as she drifts towards him, slow enough that he can almost believe it’s a coincidence when she ends up next to him, her face calm as she sips her drink and watches Wilson and Stark share mission stories with Handler-Rogers on the couch.

She doesn’t say anything, just stands there for a while, before eventually stepping purposefully over to haggle away the last slice of pizza from Barton, and the Asset watches her go, feeling strangely drained even though he’d hardly said more than a single word all night.

oOo

With the Avengers back, the Asset had been hoping that things would go back to a relative normal (and that maybe he would start his training again, he doesn’t want to get sloppy), but maybe that had been too much to ask for. It’s only a day or so since the Avengers’ return when his handler suddenly orders him to follow him to the medical suite in the tower.

The Asset tenses instinctively at the unusual order. He hasn’t gone to the med bay since he’d first arrived in the tower and he has _no_ idea what to expect now. (And a part of him still can’t help wondering if he will finally be punished for invading his handler’s room, no matter how unperturbed his handler seems to be about the incident.) He also has no idea why he’s going, since Banner’s meds are working and he feels relatively fine.

Thankfully, his handler explains everything on their way down. “We’re going to meet a doctor named Manandeep Ahuja,” he says as JARVIS starts the elevator. “He will help us so that you can start eating solid food again.”

The Asset nods slowly, turning over the idea in his mind. He’d forgotten that his handler had wanted to feed him solid food, but it makes sense once he thinks about it. It will probably be easier for the Avengers while on missions, and he will probably be a more effective asset, if he can be fed the same things as the rest of the team. The idea of going to go see a _doctor_ for it still makes him nervous, but he doubts there’s much he can do about that.

The elevator stops and the doors open, and the Asset can’t help thinking over his handler’s exact wording as he follows him out. ‘He will help us so that you can start eating solid food _again._ ’ His handler is acting as though the Asset had, at one point, eaten solid food _before_ , even though he can never remember doing so with Hydra, and he can’t remember for sure if his memories/malfunctions had ever—

Wait, hadn’t he remembered a sandwich at one point? His handler had been eating sandwiches and he’d thought of a— a bacon and peanut butter one, yes. Had he actually eaten something like that before? He doesn’t actually remember _eating_ it, per se, so it’s possible he could have just _watched_ one of his handler’s eat it…

He’s so preoccupied with the thought that he almost doesn’t notice as his handler leads him into the med bay, a man with dark skin, a turban, and a white coat, waiting for them by one of the beds. The white coat immediately brings to mind the countless technicians that had dealt with him over the years, and he can’t help tensing a little at the sight, even if the man seems non-threatening enough.

His handler, of course, isn’t bothered by the doctor, and he approaches him immediately, both men calm and relaxed as they greet each other. The Asset lingers a little further back, his right hand rubbing at the fabric of his t-shirt as he swallows nervously and eyes the doctor, wondering what kinds of tests he will want to run.

(He can hold still for tests, he’s good at that.)

Both the man and his handler turn to him, and Handler-Rogers motions him towards the bed, his shoulders relaxed despite the situation. The Asset complies reluctantly and soon finds himself sitting on the bed, facing the new doctor. His handler stands next to him, which is oddly comforting, and Doctor Ahuja offers him a warm smile behind his beard. The Asset swallows again, his right hand sweaty against his left.

“I hear you haven’t eaten solid food in quite a while,” Dr Ahuja starts off, sitting down on the rolling stool next to him, a clipboard at his elbow on the bedside table. “What kinds of foods have you been eating?”

The Asset freezes in uncertainty at the direct question, and thankfully, his handler takes over, describing the various smoothies that he had been preparing. The Asset relaxes at that, glad that his handler is still willing to fulfill his handling duties, even if he’s different from the rest of his handlers.

“Do you ever have any trouble with your food?” Dr Ahuja asks him afterwards. “Trouble chewing or swallowing, or any upset stomachs?” His handler looks over at him too, suddenly anxious, and the Asset shakes his head, his handler’s food has always been fine.

Handler-Rogers relaxes at that, and Dr Ahuja smiles, reaching over to grab his clipboard. The Asset follows his movements warily and remains tense as the doctor flips through his various notes. “Well.” He sets the pad down on his lap and gives him a small smile. “From the blood work Dr Banner did, it looks like you're doing okay in that area.”

His handler relaxes even further at that and the Asset allows himself to breathe a little lighter. Doing okay is good, as long as he’s not letting down his handler somehow, he is okay.

Handler-Rogers moves on to asking about the ins and outs of reintroducing solids into his diet and Dr. Ahuja doesn’t seem to think that it will be too much of a difficulty. “It’s really quite similar to how one would introduce solids to a baby,” he explains. “Start small, so the stomach can adjust, mincing solids or adding them into things you’re already eating should help.”

His handler looks reassured at the doctor’s words, and he thanks him gratefully before motioning for the Asset to follow him out of the room. He gets up immediately, relieved and a little confused at how easy the doctor’s visit had gone. Doctor Ahuja hadn’t felt the need to test _anything_ on him, and the appointment had been strangely non-painful, which he hadn’t been expecting.

For supper that day, his handler makes their usual smoothie before sliding over a small plate with about six oval seed-like things on them. “These are almonds,” his handler says, his fingers dancing along the table edge as he speaks. “They’re supposed to be good for you, just— I guess, make sure you chew them properly.”

The Asset nods slowly and reaches for one of the almonds with his right hand, fingering the rough texture for a moment before slipping it into his mouth. In front of him, his handler’s eyes are focused intently on his own smoothie, a slight tension in his lips keeping him from looking fully relaxed.

The Asset turns the almond over in his mouth for a second, before finally biting down. It feels a little weird biting down on something hard besides the occasional ice chip in his handler’s smoothies, but it isn’t unpleasant either. Inside his mouth, the almond splits in two, and he bites down again until there’s hardly anything left to chew. He swallows and reaches for another, feeling more than seeing his handler relax and finally take a sip of his own food.

Almonds taste good, he decides as he slowly eats the few he’d been given. Back with Hydra he would have _never_ been allowed anything like this, but here… Something almost like excitement swells up in his chest and he can’t help wondering what other kinds of things his handler will let him try.

His handler starts offering him small portions of solid food with every meal, (the Asset finds that thawed strawberries are _amazing,_ and he has to stop himself from sneaking more when his handler’s back is turned.) He makes them something called oatmeal a few days in, and promises to add more flavours once the Asset is used to eating solid food.

For his part, the Asset savours every bit of the oatmeal, the flavour inexplicably familiar and comforting. The food is a comfortable weight in his stomach, and he’s just about finished his bowl when it seems to trigger a new memory/malfunction.

— _“Your Ma left some for you on the stove,” he says, holding the bowl out for Steve, his other hand clutching his schoolbag as Steve pushes himself up higher in bed, his hair mussed and slightly sticky from sweat. “You gotta eat it_ all _, kay Steve?”_

_Steve rolls his eyes and coughs weakly into his elbow. “I’m sick, not dying Buck,” he rasps as he reaches out for the bowl.—_

“—just wait here while I go down and talk to the Avengers.” His handler is speaking to him and the Asset blinks himself back into awareness, nodding as he fights down the familiar swell of panic at almost missing something his handler had said.

His handler’s lips press up into a distracted smile as he begins gathering up the breakfast dishes and the Asset is left to wonder a little anxiously at what kind of meeting he’s having.

He finds out a little while later, when his handler comes back, a slight tension in his shoulders and an uncertain look in his eyes. The Asset finds his own shoulders tensing in response and he eyes his handler a little warily as he motions for them both to take a seat on the couch.

His handler opens and closes his mouth a few times, seemingly unsure as to how to approach what he has to say, and the Asset tries not to assume that he is the one at fault. So far, he has yet to displease his handler, and he can’t think of anything he’s done today that could have been _bad_ —

“I…” His handler swallows and squares his shoulders. “I know we’ve been spending a lot of time together,” he says, and the Asset’s brow furls, not quite sure where his handler is going with this. “I don’t mind that,” Handler-Rogers continues, quick to reassure. “But I would like— I think it would be good for you to spend time with the other Avengers as well.”

The Asset flicks his eyes over his handler and gives him a slow nod. His handler’s shoulders relax slightly, and he rubs his hand on his leg. “The other Avengers have agreed to show you some things,” he says. “So you’ll soon be doing things you probably haven’t done before.” He settles back into the couch a little and waves his hand. “I’ll be there at the start,” he reassures before his eyes go soft. “And… this is supposed to help both of us,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about the Avengers punishing you or reporting on you back to me.”

The Asset nods again, swallowing as he thinks over what his handler had said. He still doesn’t quite know what to expect from this new development, but hopefully it will be rather painless. _This is supposed to help both of us,_ his handler had said, and he wonders a bit at that. What… what could his handler need help with?

oOo

His newly prescribed activities with the Avengers team isn’t as hard as he had first thought it might be. They do things he has absolutely no protocols for – like going for walks or going to a building full of books called a library – and he’s a little paranoid about accidentally crossing lines that he isn’t even _aware_ of, since none of his Hydra training helps him much when Banner is showing him the cookbook section or when Romanoff points out random birds in the park. But, his handler sticks around for the first few outings, and the Asset comes to a pretty essential realisation once Barton mentions something about archery.

This all has to do with his _mission_.

The epiphany helps him relax a little, once he remembers that his mission is to ‘Live in Avengers Tower’. This whole thing— the Avengers showing him various leisurely activities and skills— it’s all _training_ for his mission. It’s _weird_ training to be sure, but this is a weird mission, and he’s honestly just glad that the Avengers are willing to train him at _all._

The outings are a little easier after that, and eventually, his handler stops coming on all of them. He still feels a bit on edge without his handler, but he tries to hide it the best he can because he doubts he will be much use to the Avengers if he can’t handle being away from his handler for more than an hour or two.

He keeps that thought firmly in mind during his most recent outing with Romanoff. They’re on a walk again and her hands sitting loosely in the pockets of her jacket, the picture of relaxed calm as they stroll down the street. He has a jacket too, because the day is a little cool, probably one of the last ones before summer really starts to hit.

(He’s not exactly sure how he knows that because he’s pretty sure Romanoff hadn’t mentioned anything.)

Out of all the Avengers, he finds Romanoff the hardest to read, and the fact sets him slightly on edge around her. Romanoff doesn’t talk much, and she seems to have expert control over all her facial expressions, making it hard to tell if he’s complying properly with his mission.

Sometimes though, he’ll catch her looking at him out of the corner of his eye, something deep, and pained, almost empathetic, in her eyes. It’s gone within the next moment, but it does make him wonder a little.

Today Romanoff looks as calm as ever, although her eyes do seem to be searching for something as they walk past the various stores. The Asset scans the area himself as he carefully keeps pace with her, mentally focusing on making sure he doesn’t walk too fast or to slow, while _also_ trying not to run into any other pedestrians or Romanoff herself. It’s a little exhausting to be focused so hard and he tries not to panic when Romanoff finally stops, a part of him certain that he’d somehow managed to fail at the simple task.

“Let’s go in here,” is all Romanoff says, stepping forward to pull open the door to a little shop in front of them.

The Asset follows inside, instinctively scanning the room around him for any threats. The shop is small, mostly filled with shelves and intricate displays of little knick-knacks and books. The place smells of old paper and is mostly empty of any patrons, which helps him relax a bit as he follows Romanoff around.

Romanoff seems to have a goal in mind as she marches them towards the back of the store, weaving around bookshelves and end-tables before arriving at a small wooden table. In front of her sit a few dozen books, their covers on display to show a wide variety of colour and design. They’re too colourful and abstract to be regular novels, but other than that he’s not sure what to think of them.

“What’s your favourite colour?” Romanoff asks abruptly, her hand hovering over the book display.

The Asset blinks at her before moving on to try and figure out an answer to her question. Until recently he hadn’t even realised that he _had_ a preference for colour, so the question is a little startling. Colour had never mattered with Hydra, unless it had something to do with a target, and it feels a little strange to… to _like_ something, just because.

That being said, there _are_ two colours that he’s beginning to feel particularly inclined to. Red because it had been Important during that movie, and blue because it seemed important just in general. His handler wears blue, and it seemed that _he_ had worn it as well, in his malfunction/memories.

“Blue,” he decides finally, hoping he hasn’t taken too long to answer.

Romanoff only nods, her fingers skimming over the books before she pulls out one with a dark blue cover and a black spine and corners. “Wait here,” she says, and the Asset falls into parade rest as she darts away to the front of the store.

She comes back only a few minutes later, a small plastic bag looped over her wrist. She stops in front of him and the bag crinkles as she reaches her hand inside, pulling out the same book she had just left with. Her eyes flick up to his for a moment, a searching expression on her face before she breathes in and looks back down at the book.

“This is a journal,” she says quietly, opening it so that he can see the blank lined pages inside. “People use them to write down what they are thinking or what happens to them.” She presses her lips together for a moment before catching his gaze.

“I… don’t know what sort of intel Hydra gave you on me,” she says a little stiffly. “You might even know more about me then _I_ do but…” Her fingers clench just slightly on the journal. “There was a time when I was in your shoes.” Her eyes glint at him determinedly. “I joined SHIELD and I had a lot of things to unlearn.” Her eyes grow distant and shift to look a little ways past his shoulder. “It took me a while to learn how to trust my handlers,” she says softly, her thumb running over the edge of the book. “Even longer to learn that a handler could also be a friend and that friends weren’t weaknesses.”

She blinks and seems to settle back into herself. “Writing in a journal helped,” she says simply, holding out the book to him. “You can write whatever you want, whenever you want. I found it helped… organise my thoughts a little.”

The Asset reaches out hesitantly to accept the journal, his mind still trying to process the fact that Romanoff is _giving_ him something. The cover is smooth under his fingers and he rubs his thumb over it a little dazedly. He swallows and looks back at Romanoff, thinking over the speech she had given him. “Is… is Handler-Rogers… your handler?” he manages to rasp out, the muscles in his lower back tensing as he speaks.

Romanoff seems to still at his question and a brief flash of sadness flickers through her eyes as she scans him. “No,” she says quietly as she reaches into the plastic bag again and hands him a pen. “He’s my friend.”

oOo

He hides the journal in the back of his drawer. It probably isn’t a very good hiding spot, especially since his handler can simply ask JARVIS and the computer will probably tell him about it, but the idea of having something that is _his –_ something specifically for him besides a weapon or a uniform – feels so foreign it almost feels wrong, and it takes him a few days to even work up the courage to open the thing.

He waits until he is sure his handler is sleeping before getting up and quietly sliding the drawer open, the journal and pen looking at him accusingly. He sweeps them up and retreats to the window, the city lights and his enhanced senses allowing him to see well enough in the dark that he doesn’t need to risk turning on any lights.

He sits for a while, the journal in his lap as he debates with himself on whether or not he should actually _use_ the thing. Romanoff _had_ given it to him as part of his training, and his handler _had_ sanctioned his training, so that probably means that there is nothing _wrong_ with… with using it.

He huffs out a quiet breath and flips it open to the first page, the blank lines staring at him as he fiddles with his pen, unsure where to even start.

 _I found it helped… organise my thoughts a little_ , Romanoff had said, and he frowns a little as he taps his pen on the page. It… probably _would_ be easier to understand his malfunctions/memories if he wrote them down…

(And then, if he ever forgets again, he will at least have _this_.)

He clicks the pen open and decides to write down everything he thinks he’s learned from his malfunctions/memories. It will be good to at least have them all in one place, even if he doesn’t understand them.

 _I worked on missions with my handler before,_ he writes, feeling it to be one of the most important revelations.

_My handler was sick and small, and then he got big because of a serum._

_I knew someone named Ma Barnes._

_I knew someone named Becca – she was pregnant, 1944._

_I was on a team called the Howling Commandos._ He stops for a moment, his brow furling as he tries to remember the names of those men. In the end, all he can remember is that one of them had a name that started wit ‘G’ and another with ‘M’.

 _There were six other people on the team,_ he writes more confidently.

 _We knew someone named Peg._ He pauses, his eyes narrowing for a moment as he remembers the pieces of his handler’s journal that he’d read. His handler had mentioned someone named Peggy…

 _My handler knew someone named Peggy,_ he writes, circling the name and connecting it with the word _Peg_ and writing a question mark. _He knew someone named Howard._

He leans his head back against the wall as he thinks, trying to sort through the confusing bits and pieces that he had slowly been collecting. It’s a little difficult since at times he’d been specifically trying _not_ to pay attention to the malfunctions/memories, but he does his best.

_I ate (?) a bacon and peanut butter sandwich._

_I fell off something,_ he remembers. _My handler was there. It hurt. It was cold._

_I had short hair._

_I had two arms._

He stills for a moment as he remembers and fully registers something else.

 _My handler called me Bucky before,_ he writes slowly. _I called him Steve._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my doctor friend who gave me tips on Bucky’s solid food eating!  
> As you can see, the Avengers are quietly adopting Bucky and he’s slowly forming bonds with them. I felt that, like Clint, Natasha would probably also relate to Bucky and reach out to him a little.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset continues to work through his memories/malfunctions as well as train with the Avengers.

The realisation leaves him shaken.

He used to call his handler by his _name_. He _never_ uses his handlers’ first name. He doesn’t even call the _Avengers_ by their first names, and while the Avengers often call his handler ‘Steve’, he'd never thought— he’d never thought it was his _place_ to do the same.

But he _had._ At one point on his missions with his handler he had called him Steve.

And his handler had called him Bucky.

He sits there on the floor for a while, mulling over his recent discovery, until a slight noise from his handler’s bedroom shocks him out of it. He flinches and snaps the journal closed, his heart pounding as he freezes, his ears straining for the sound of his approaching handler.

After a few moments it becomes clear that no one is actually coming and he relaxes a little, his shoulders coming down from around his ears as he turns his eyes curiously towards his handler’s room. The door is half-open as usual and after a few seconds he hears the sound of a creaking bed from beyond it.

He sits up, coming into a crouch as he sets his journal and pen aside, his eyes trained on the darkened doorway. The sound of rustling sheets greets him and the bed creaks again as he slowly realises that his handler must be tossing and turning in his sleep.

He sits still and listens as the quiet sounds of restless sleeping continues for a while, intercut ever once and a while by the shallow but rapid breathing of his handler. The sound makes his skin crawl and he has to fight to keep himself from standing up and marching to his handler’s room. The breathing is _Important_. And it’s difficult to sit still at the sound of his handler’s laboured breaths. He bites his cheek and pushes his shoulders back into the wall behind him. He’s already gone into his handler’s room _once_ without permission, going in _now_ would be a _terrible_ plan—

His internal argument gets cut off and his head jerks up as the sounds from his handler’s bedroom change. The breathing is more regulated now, but the bed creaks and he swears he can hear the sound of soft footsteps under the louder sound of rustling blankets. He hardly dares breathe as the noise quiets and he’s left to wonder at what just happened. Anxiety crawls up and down his shoulders and he grits his teeth before finally rocking to his feet, silently edging towards the door.

He shouldn’t disturb his handler but… but it’s is fine, he doesn’t have to go _in_. The door is half-open so he can just peek in quietly, make sure his handler is alright and then _go back to bed,_ since that’s what he’s _supposed_ to be doing.

He reaches the doorway and swallows nervously, pressing his back against the wall before carefully leaning his head so that he can see inside. It's dark, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, but once they do, he has to swallow down a fresh wave of panic when he sees his handler’s rumpled and distinctly _empty_ bed.

A second later and he catches sight of a blond patch of hair curled up amid a pile of blankets on the floor by the bed, and his panic simmers down into confusion. He stares uncomprehendingly at what can only be his handler _sleeping on the floor_. His eyes dart back and forth between Handler-Rogers and the bed, trying to understand what he’s seeing. From the sounds of it, his handler had been having trouble sleeping, but he has no clue why sleeping on the floor would be _better._

But Handler-Rogers’ breathing has gotten slower and steadier, so he inches away slowly, heading back to were he’d left his journal and pen before picking them up and slipping them back into his dresser. It’s none of his business where his handler decides to go to sleep, especially when he should be sleeping _himself._

He walks over to sink back down onto the couch and tries not to think about it too hard. 

oOo

His training with the Avengers continues and Barton makes good on his promise to teach him archery. The Asset honestly doesn’t quite understand why he needs to learn archery (he doesn’t particularly understand why Barton uses archery in the _first_ place either, since guns work just fine in his opinion.) But the weapons training is the closest to any type of training he’s familiar with, so he’s determined to do well at it.

“Okay,” Barton says, looking a lot more excited to be teaching him than the Asset had been expecting. Usually agents don’t like working with him outside of missions. “So you’ve never done this before, right?” Barton confirms. The Asset nods his head and Barton doesn’t seem upset by his lack of knowledge. “We’ll start slow,” he promises. “Although I’m sure you’ll pick it up pretty fast.”

The Asset tries not to panic at the assumption, his mind spiralling because if he _doesn’t_ pick it up quickly then Barton might refuse to train him anymore and then he would _fail his mission_ —

“So, first things first,” Barton says, cutting into his internal conflict. “Safety is our number one priority.” The Asset blinks at him a little because as far as he can remember, safety has never been an issue before. Nevertheless, Barton points at a white line by their feet, running from one wall to the other, the targets sitting on the other side.

“To shoot we will be putting one foot over this line,” Barton explains. “But when the range is open, it is important to _never_ go any further. When I close the range then we can go across and collect our arrows.”

The Asset nods his understanding and Barton goes on to explain a few other common sense things like ‘don’t point your loaded bow at people’ and ‘if you drop an arrow over the line and can’t reach it without moving your feet, then you have to leave it until the range is closed.’

After the safety talk, Barton finally leads them over to a rack of different sized bows by the wall. “I know with your metal arm you could probably draw all of these,” he rambles as he explains the different draw strengths of the bows. “And with your serum you probably won’t have a problem with your right hand so… do you know which hand you’d like to use first?”

The Asset opens his mouth and stills, his eyes widening slightly as he stares blankly at Barton, trying to figure out the answer to his question. He had been planning to choose his right hand. He can shoot with both hands but Hydra had mostly trained him with his right hand so that’s the one he goes with more often but—

— _he growls slightly as ink smudges over his paper and the side of his hand and he scowls, throwing down his fountain pen. “These things aren’t designed for left-handers,” he complains, looking across the table to where Steve is working through his own copybook, his friend much further along and half as messy._

_“That’s why the teacher wants you to use your right hand,” Steve replies distractedly, his head bowed over his work._

_He grumbles half-heartedly and picks up the pen in his right hand, the foreign feel annoying and awkward. “I wish I could just do it in pencil,” he replies, glaring down at the page in front of him. “It’s not_ my _fault pens are stupid—_

“Bucky?”

He flinches away, his heartrate spiking before Barton raises his hands placatingly. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says gently, taking a step back. “Take your time, that’s fine.” He gives him a small smile. “What hand do you want to use?”

The Asset looks back down at the bows and swallows, his hands flexing unconsciously at his sides. “…Left,” he decides, flicking his eyes up to Barton.

Barton’s smile widens and he steps closer to the bows while still managing not to crowd him. “Great,” he says. “That just means you’ll string your arrow on the other side from me.” He picks up a bow and holds it out. “Try this one for now,” he says. “We’ll practice both hands and different draw strengths later.”

He accepts the bow with his left hand and silently follows Barton back to the shooting range. Barton grabs two standing quivers with about six arrows in each, the fletching blue for one, and purple for the other and he sets the blue ones in front of him and keeps the purple ones for himself.

“So, let’s start with stance,” Barton says, turning towards him. “You know martial arts right? Can you go into a front stance?”

The Asset complies, setting one foot in front of the other and bending his knee in a semi-lunge. Barton flicks his eyes over him and nods.

“Good,” he says, and the Asset relaxes a little at the praise. “Okay,” Barton readies his bow – currently without an arrow – and steps a little closer. “I’ll do it right-handed first, so you can see,” he says. “If you’re confused then I can do it left-handed.” He sets his left foot over the line and falls back into his stance, drawing up his bow and pulling the string back to his cheekbone. “The important part is to keep your shoulders down and open,” he says after a moment, relaxing out of the stance and turning to him. “Now you try.”

The Asset mirrors him, placing his right foot over the line and raising his bow. The string has more resistance than he’s expecting, but it isn’t too difficult for him to pull it back to his cheek like Barton. Barton scans his stance for a moment before carefully setting his bow down.

“Is it okay if I fix something?” he asks, raising his hands. “It’s often easier to show than to tell.”

The Asset eyes him for a moment before nodding slowly, barely breathing as Barton comes closer. “I’m just going to touch your shoulders for a moment,” he warns, his movements slow and choreographed. His fingers brush over his shoulders and the Asset tries not to shiver, straightening instinctively as Barton guides him into a better stance.

“There,” Barton steps back and the Asset breathes in, his heart pounding faster than he’d like. The touch of Barton’s hands seems to linger on his shoulders and he’s not exactly sure how he feels about it. But, the stance feels more natural now, and Barton hadn’t hurt him at all while touching him.

Barton has him practice drawing the bow without an arrow a few more times before he’s satisfied. “Nice,” he says after a moment. “Alright, we can probably grab an arrow now—” He cuts himself off abruptly and slaps a hand to his forehead. “Oh geez,” he moans, dragging his hand down his face. The Asset freezes and watches as Barton shrugs his shoulders sheepishly. “Can’t believe I forgot again,” he mumbles half to himself. “Okay.” He looks up and flashes him a light smile. “Guess I got a little carried away,” he says. “We need to put on some protection before we do anything else.”

Confused but amiable, the Asset sets his bow down and follows Barton back to the equipment rack, standing to the side as the agent crouches down to pull out a bin filled with varying lengths of fabric and straps. He’s not exactly sure what they are, or why he would need ‘protection’ for training (he can’t remember ever needing it before) but Barton seems to think it is important, so he will comply.

“These are armguards,” Barton explains as he selects one and begins strapping it to the inside of his left arm. “They help protect you from getting hit by the bow string.” He stands and holds out another armguard. “You’ll want to put it on your right arm,” he says.

The Asset nods silently and attempts to strap on the guard like he had seen Barton do. It’s finicky, since he has to both hold on the guard _and_ strap it on with one hand and he can feel his cheeks heating slightly as he struggles.

“Here.” His breath stalls as Barton reaches for him, and he can’t help flinching a little, worried that he’d worn through the Avengers’ patience. Barton stills and scans him for a second. “It’s fine,” he says gently, his eyes strangely soft. “I’m just going to help you, alright?”

The Asset nods shakily and holds as still as possible as Barton approaches again, his hands as gentle as last time as he straightens the guard and tightens the straps. “There,” he says, giving his arm one final pat and looking down at the bin. “I also have finger guards,” he says, adjusting his armguard a little and motioning for the Asset to follow him back to the range. “They’re nice if you’re planning to practice for a long time.” He wiggles his fingers as he walks, and grins. “Blisters suck.” He shrugs. “We probably won’t need them today though,” he explains as he reaches down for his bow and the Asset copies him. “Today we’ll just work on the basics.”

Barton spends the next several minutes showing him how to notch his arrow and aim. “Make sure not to hold onto the end of the arrow with your fingers,” he says, as they both stand with their bows drawn. “Just let it rest gently on top of your bottom finger and you should be able to let go easily.” He lets his arrow fly and the Asset watches as it lands in the exact center of the target.

“You’re turn.” Barton turns to him and the Asset focuses back on the target in front of him. It’s about 40 feet away from him, which isn’t drastically far, but he’s never shot an arrow before, so he has no idea how he’s going to do on this.

He wants to do well.

He aims as well as he can, and lets the arrow go. He immediately understands the need for an arm guard as the bow string slaps against his arm and his arrow arks through the air. It lands with a solid _thunk_ in the top right-hand corner of the target, just barely even touching the outer rings.

He drops his arm and scowls, unimpressed by his own performance. Barton shifts beside him and he freezes, darting his eyes back to his trainer, expecting to see a stormy cloud of disappointment at his failure.

Instead, Barton _grins_ at him, his face lighting up. “Good job,” he says, and the Asset stares at him. “Hitting the bag on the first try,” Barton continues. “Pretty impressive.”

The Asset can feel his brow furling at Barton’s behaviour, and he doesn’t know how to react to the praise. _He_ hadn’t thought he’d done well (he’d fully expected to be scolded), but here Barton is _complimenting_ him.

He shakes his head. Maybe the Avengers are just as weird as his handler.

Either way, Barton doesn’t seem inclined to get mad at him, instead gesturing back to the quiver in front of them. “Let’s go again,” he says.

The Asset nods stiffly and reaches for his next arrow, notching it and aiming as well as he can. His heart begins to pound in his chest worse than last time and he finds it hard to concentrate beyond the need for him to succeed. He _has_ to get this right. He’s the _asset—_

He lets go and hardly feels the thwack of the string against his arm as his arrow flies and— and _misses the target entirely._ He stills, barely breathing, his eyes wide as he stares, his heart in his throat. This cannot be good; this is even _worse_ than before—

“That’s okay,” Barton cuts in and the Asset jerks, darting his eyes over to his trainer. Barton has his own arrow notched and aimed, focused mostly on the target in front of him. “Just try again, you’ll get better as you practice.”

The Asset flicks his eyes carefully over him before slowly turning back to his quiver and grabbing another arrow, notching it determinedly. He _will_ get better.

They continue like that for a while, Barton closing the range every once and a while so that they can collect their arrows (the Asset can’t help being a little embarrassed that Barton can simply pull his own arrows out of the target while _he_ has to go searching for half of his). By the end of it, the majority of his arrows at least _hit_ the target, even if they’re not as centered as he would like.

“Okay,” Barton says eventually, once they’ve completed their most recent round. “Let’s take a break.”

The Asset looks over at him, his chest tightening with sudden nerves. His fingers and bow arm are tingling thanks to his bow string and he’s a little winded after everything but he’d thought that he'd been performing optimally, he doesn’t need to stop, he can still keep going and get better—

“I am still operational,” he protests without thinking and Barton pauses in running a hand through his hair, his eyes focused towards him. The Asset swallows uneasily and fights to keep from taking a step back, aware that he’s just broken _several_ rules.

Barton’s face is almost unreadable, but there’s something… tired in his eyes when he drops his hand. “I know,” he says quietly, his gaze intense. “But, it’s important to take breaks.” He scans him for a second and rolls his shoulders. “No one expects you to get good at this in one day,” he says. “Taking breaks helps your body rest so you can learn next time.”

The Asset can feel his brow furling as he nods slowly, taking special note of the new directive. He doesn’t think that breaks had really been a thing with Hydra, but apparently things are different now. Barton offers him a small smile and moves on to help him put away the equipment, his voice and motions just as patient as before.

oOo

_The Target is alone in his bed, his face slack with sleep, and the Asset grips his knife tighter in his hand as he creeps forward. Normally he would prefer a gun, since distance means safety and an easier extraction, but Hydra wants the target to die quietly and a gun – even one with a suppressor – will draw too much attention._

_The mission will still be pretty simple though, the Target is asleep and doesn’t need to wake up ever again if the Asset has anything to do with it. He swallows behind his mask and takes another step forward, careful in case the floor creaks. Just a few more feet and then—_

_“Dad?”_

_He freezes as the door behind him is pushed open and the sound of quiet feet fill his ears. There shouldn’t be anyone else in the house— the intel had said he lived_ alone _—_

_He pulls back into the shadows, desperate not to be seen. Nobody can know he’s here, nobody can see him, if he’s seen—_

_There’s nowhere to hide though, and his heart pounds as he hears the child – a small girl, maybe eight – suck in a breath, her eyes widening as she catches sight of him._

_“H-hello?” she questions, drawing back._

_In bed, the Target stirs and the Asset panics, clenching his hand around his knife as he darts towards the girl. The Target cannot wake up, he cannot be seen—_

He jerks awake, his teeth clenched tight as he tries to breathe in silently and avoid waking his handler. His hand shakes slightly as he runs it through his hair and sits up slowly. The back of his shirt feels slightly damp and he breathes in carefully, hunching slightly as he rubs a hand over his eyes.

After a few moments his heartrate begins to calm down and he stands up shakily to make his way to his dresser. He pulls out his journal and shuffles to the window, using the streetlight to guide him as he sits down next to the wall.

He breathes out and flips the book open to where he’s divided off a section, the corner folded down so he can find it. After receiving his journal from Romanoff, he’d quickly decided to write down his dreams and other malfunctions, hoping that the process would help him understand what he’s seeing. So far, his handler has yet to notice him and his journal, which is something of a relief. He’s pretty sure the journal wouldn’t be a problem but… he’s not willing to risk it yet.

He breathes in again and clenches his teeth as he thinks back over his dream and how the girl’s eyes had widened as he’d leapt for her. His hand shakes slightly as he begins to write.

_Dreams that are possible memories._

He scribbles down what he can remember from the dream and closes the book, squeezing his eyes shut. He can’t remember if he’d killed the girl, but— but he knows… deep down he knows that if he had wanted to complete his mission then…

He knows, he _knows_ that he’s supposed to complete whatever mission he’s given and that his work is _important_ and necessary but…

But… part of him wishes that he hadn’t had to— she was just a _kid_ —

A noise from his handler’s room jerks him out of his thoughts and he glances over to hear the increasingly familiar sounds of his handler’s restless sleep. A knot forms in his stomach as he listens and his hands tighten over his journal.

After a few minutes the tossing and turning stops, so that only the sound of his handler’s deep breathing reaches his ears, and then, a louder rustling of blankets is heard as sheets are ripped from the bed. He waits a little longer until he’s sure his handler is settled again, before going to check on him. Sure enough, his handler is curled up on the floor again, and he finds himself scowling at the sight.

He huffs and turns away, intent on trying to get some more sleep himself.

oOo

He has another session with Barton the next morning, and instead of continuing with his left hand like before, Barton has him restart with his right hand.

“It’s good to know both,” Barton explains, setting some water bottles down on a bench to the side. The Asset agrees and works on drawing the bow back with his opposite hand. It’s a little easier now that he knows what he’s doing, but it still feels unnatural. Barton joins him and they haven’t gotten very far into their practice when the gym door sounds behind them and they both turn in surprise to see his handler enter.

Usually his handler goes off to do something else while he’s training with the other Avengers, so for a second the Asset is concerned that he had done something wrong or that his handler needed him for something, but his handler waves away his concerns, his gaze tired and intense as he focuses down on his punching bags on the other side of the gym.

Barton shrugs next to him and they go back to practising, the sounds of his handler’s work with the bags fading into a steady rhythm in the background.

The sound is familiar, like the last time he had trained with his handler, and the Asset finds himself relaxing slightly as he continues to fire his arrows. His aim is a little better now, only the odd arrow or two managing to miss the target and he can’t help feeling a swell of pride at that, even if he still isn’t hitting exactly on target.

Barton seems distracted though, an unhappy crease in his brow which grows deeper the longer they continue. “Let’s take a break,” he says finally, motioning him towards the collection of water bottles. The Asset approaches cautiously, uncertain as to whether or not Barton is disappointed in him. He hadn’t been _last_ time, and he’s doing better now, but maybe Barton had changed his mind, maybe he isn’t doing as good as he thought…

Barton’s gaze isn’t focused on him though, instead it’s pinned on his handler, the bottle of water in his hand untouched. The Asset flicks his eyes between the two of them, noting the concern in Barton’s face before turning back to analyse his handler fully.

Handler-Rogers is focused completely on the bag in front of him, his face tight and hard as he pounds on it, the steady rhythm of his fists echoing throughout the gym. Beside him, Barton’s mouth twists as he reaches down to hand the Asset his own bottle.

The Asset accepts it easily, but like Barton, he finds he can’t stop looking towards his handler. Barton grumbles something and takes a drink from his water and the Asset has a sudden memory of the _last_ time he’d seen his handler working on the punching bags. The memory of his handler’s scabbed knuckles makes him tense and he narrows his eyes as he watches his handler. Barton had said that it is important to take breaks and let the body rest, but his handler hadn’t taken a break at _all_ last time.

He doesn’t seem inclined to take one _now_ either.

Breaks are important though, if only to give his handler’s body time to heal so that he doesn’t hurt himself. Barton is looking at him and the Asset realises he hasn’t opened his water yet. His hand moves to twist off the cap, but it stills as he’s once again distracted by his handler as he throws a particularly loud strike against the punching bag.

“Oh for Pete’s sake,” Barton huffs and the Asset darts his eyes over to him. Barton nods his head towards Handler-Rogers and drinks his water pointedly. “I’d step in, but I doubt he’d listen to _me._ ”

The Asset looks down at his water and then back up at Barton. He doesn’t see why his hander would listen to _him_ either, but Barton is giving him a significant look over the top of his water and the sounds of his handler’s workout is more grating than comforting now.

He straightens his shoulders and takes a step forward, his eyes focused on his handler. Barton doesn’t stop him, and after a second, he takes another step, his water clenched determinedly in his hand. He makes it across the gym, his heart pounding almost as fast as his handler’s punches and he stumbles to a stop a few feet from his handler, his throat flexing as he tries to figure out what to do next.

His handler steps back from the bag for a second, his chest heaving, and the collar of his shirt lined with sweat. He raises his hands for a moment before he finally seems to notice him, his body jolting away in surprise before he drops his hands, confusion in his eyes. The Asset stills, his whole brain suddenly remembering that his handler could very well disapprove of this whole venture. What is he _thinking_ interrupting his handler without orders or prompting? There’s no _way_ this is appropriate—

“Do you need something?” his handler asks, his tone a lot less harsh than he’d been expecting.

He doesn’t know how to respond, but he’s not about to walk back to Barton with the water still in his hand, especially since he _knows_ his handler will just keep going – and besides, he’s already gone this far, it’s not like he can walk away without some sort of explanation.

He sweeps his hand up and shoves the water out in front of himself in a desperate gesture, his heart pounding and his mind spinning. He has no protocols for this situation. His handler’s brow furls but he accepts the water, beads of sweat dripping down his hairline. The Asset catches sight of the white bandages on his hands and thinks back to the _last_ time he'd seen them, darkened red by unnecessary injuries.

“It’s important. To take breaks,” he recites haltingly as his handler takes the water. Internally, he shrinks away— a part of him horrified that he’s trying to _tell his handler what to do_. Another part of him feels like glaring because Steve should _know_ better by now the stupid punk—

“Yeah,” his handler rasps, cutting into his train of thought before he can try to figure out what _exactly_ had just happened. “You’re right.”

He can’t help relaxing at his handler’s agreement (It seems he’s escaped punishment _again_ ) and he finds himself giving Handler-Rogers (…Steve?) a stiff, determined nod before spinning around and marching back to where Barton is waiting for him, his mind racing.

Barton grins wider than ever when he returns and offers him what’s left of his own water bottle. “Good job,” he says, as behind him, his handler steps away from the bags and finally sits down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of like the idea that Bucky learned about breaks from Barton : )  
> Meanwhile Steve is having his mattress issues and Bucky has definitely noticed.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset comes to several conclusions and throws Wilson for a loop.

_Steve,_ he turns the name over in his head. He had called his handler Steve at one point. At least, he’s _pretty_ sure he had. All his other malfunction/memories match with the evidence he’d found in his handler’s rooms so… so logically that meant that the whole calling-his-handler-by-his-name thing had to be true too, right?

It feels weird though and he mulls it over throughout the day. In the past, in the malfunction/memories, his handler had called him Bucky… and everyone calls him Bucky _now_ (except for JARVIS, _he_ calls him Sergeant Barnes for some reason), but everyone else generally calls him Bucky so…

So, does that mean it is okay for him to go back to calling his handler by his first name?

He winces and his heart begins to pound a little harder at the thought. He swallows nervously and focuses back on his handler as he prepares their supper. Today it’s a purple smoothie and a plate of apple slices and the Asset scans his handler’s back carefully. His handler is kind, he gives him good food and lets him sleep in his rooms and has yet to punish him at all…

He doesn’t want to ruin that.

The topic is still on his mind once they finish supper dishes and his handler turns to him, drying his hands. “I was going to take a shower tonight,” he says as he puts away his towel. “Did you want to take one first?”

The Asset nods easily, familiar enough with this ritual to accept the first shower. So far, he and his handler have always showered on the same days, which he doesn’t mind, since it makes it easier for him to remember the task. He makes sure to grab his sleepwear before he heads for the shower, but his mind is still preoccupied as he turns on the water and begins to get undressed.

Does he really think his handler will get mad at him if he uses his name? He has to admit that most of him does not. Handler-Rogers is the _best_ handler he’s ever had, and the Avengers are just about as good. Even if his handler doesn’t want him to call him by his first name, he’d probably explain that rule to him calmly, instead of punishing him immediately.

He chews on his cheek in indecision and steps into the shower, his movements mechanical as he goes through his usual routine. He has showering down to a science and can therefore focus fully on his current dilemma without having to worry or really pay attention.

He… doubts his handler would get mad if he used his first name. Take today for example, he had walked up to him and _told him what to do_ and all his handler had done was nod and _actually do it._ That is _not_ normal handler behavior, but the other Avengers don’t seem to find anything wrong with it.

That doesn’t exactly mean _all_ the rules are out the window though, and he’d rather be safe than sorry in this case. (But his handler hadn’t even cared when he’d gone into his _room,_ is calling him by his name really worse than that?) He can’t decide, and he’s just about finished rinsing the conditioner out of his hair when he freezes mid-motion, his brain completely forgetting his current dilemma as it takes the time to clue in to his surroundings and promptly freak out.

The shower water is warm.

He whips around to stare at the tap behind him and his eyes widen when it confirms the water temperature. He’d been so distracted by his debate that he’d turned the hot water on, and he _hadn’t even noticed._ His hand moves instantly to turn it off, his heart pounding as he tries not to think about how much trouble he’s going to get into.

He’s not supposed to use the hot water. He’s _never_ used the hot water before— that had _never_ been allowed— what was he _thinking?_ He should have been paying attention—

— _“Sit,” he snaps out, trying not to sound panicked as he lowers Steve down onto the kitchen chair, the boy shivering and dripping thanks to the freak storm they’d been caught in._

_“Take your jacket off,” he orders as he rushes to pull the quilt off the couch. “I’ll boil some water and then you can take a bath and warm up—_

He stills. He blinks in the warm spray and slowly drops his hand.

The… the warm shower feels really nice. He likes it much better than his usual cold showers and— and while he’s not sure if his recent malfunction/memory means that he’d had warm showers before… it sort of made him feel… He’s… pretty sure that his handler won’t get mad at him for taking a warm shower.

He swallows and clenches his jaw, moving on to finish rinsing his hair as quickly as possible. His hands shake slightly as he turns off the water and steps out, nervous despite himself. His stomach drops as he steps out onto the mat and sees that the mirrors of the bathroom have fogged up thanks to the hot water and steam from his shower.

His handler will definitely know now that he’d used the hot water. He clenches his fists and grabs his towel, not wanting to be slow on top of everything else. He’ll just have to see… he’ll have to see if his handler gets mad about the water, and if he doesn’t…

If he doesn’t then maybe…

He gets dressed and brushes his hair quickly, putting his used clothes in the laundry hamper before carefully stepping out of the bathroom. His handler isn’t in the living room, so he’s probably in his room, and the Asset tries not to feel too relieved as he walks as quietly as possible over to his dresser.

He’s busy making up his bed when his handler steps out of his room, his own pajamas in hand as he goes over to the bathroom and shuts the door. Anxiety twists in his stomach as he sits down and waits, his heart pounding and his hands clasped tightly together in his lap.

Fifteen minutes later and the water shuts off. His heart is about ready to pound right out of his chest by now and he presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he waits for his handler to come out of the bathroom.

Surely he will notice the hot water, the mirror, he’s _got_ to, his handler isn’t dumb, and besides, JARVIS can probably tell him if he doesn’t pick up on it and then he will know for _sure_ that his asset broke the rules and then—

The door opens and his handler steps out, running a hand through his still damp hair. He glances over and the Asset’s stomach does its best to crawl its way up his throat, but all his handler does is flash him a small smile and bid him goodnight.

The Asset stares at him dumbfounded, his eyes following him as his handler makes it to his room and closes his door halfway.

His handler hadn’t… he hadn’t gotten mad. He hadn’t even _mentioned_ it – but he _must_ have noticed, he must have so… He deflates slightly against the couch and sucks in a breath, feeling stupid. He shouldn’t have been so worried. His handler isn’t the type to explode over little things – he hadn't even gotten mad when he’d gone into his _room_ for Pete’s sake, so it isn’t that surprising that he’d let this go too.

Does that mean… he wouldn’t mind… if he used his first name?

The Asset stares up at the ceiling and turns over the idea in his head. Calling his handler by his first name seems like a big step, and he’s not sure he’s ready to leap that far… but maybe… Maybe he could start with calling him Handler- _Steve_ , instead of Handler-Rogers – if only in the privacy of his own mind.

He nods slowly. Yes, Handler-Steve is better than Handler-Rogers, he can call him that.

And maybe… maybe he can keep having warm showers too.

oOo

That night, his handler doesn’t sleep well again, and he stays awake, staring at the ceiling as he listens to the shaky breaths coming from the other room. He doesn’t hear the telltale sounds of his handler getting onto the floor this time, so that’s good, but he still can’t help the worry that twists in his stomach as he listens to his handler’s uneasy sleep.

He doesn’t know what to do about it and… and he _feels_ like he’s _supposed_ to do something about it. He’s not sure if this is really something related to his current mission but… but he’s supposed to take care of his handler, right?

Yeah that seems… that seems right. He can’t remember ever specifically being told to look after his handlers but… but he’s _definitely_ supposed to look after Handler-Steve.

That doesn’t really change the fact that he doesn’t know _how_ though. He doesn’t really know _why_ his handler is having such a hard time sleeping, and he _certainly_ doesn’t know what would fix that. He huffs frustratedly and shifts a little on the couch. He’ll have to… think this over a little bit more.

A few days later and he’s no closer to solving that particular problem, and his handler has to leave again for another doctor’s appointment. He tries not to worry too much at how often Handler-Rog– Steve seems to need to get checked — the serum is _supposed_ to keep him healthy after all — but he can’t help tensing slightly as his handler leaves him in the common room again and walks out the door.

Surely something must be wrong if he has to go to the doctor so often, right?

“Alright.” He turns to look over at Wilson, standing by one of the couches. It’s apparently his turn to train him today and the man is rubbing his hands together, and bright gleam in his eyes. “Do you have anything you wanted to do? Because I have an idea.”

The Asset shakes his head and Wilson grins. “Cool,” he says, waving him towards the communal kitchen. “So.” He settles himself onto one of the barstools and leans his elbow on the counter. “I was thinking, since you’re starting to eat solid food now, did you want to learn to cook something?”

The Asset’s eyes widen a little in surprise. He’d never thought about cooking food before, that is always something his handler does (that is something his handlers always _did_ actually, he doesn’t think his made food in… in a _long_ time.) Still, Wilson wouldn’t be suggesting the activity if it isn’t allowed and… learning to cook _did_ seem like a useful skill…

He dips his head down and Wilson sits up. “Great,” he says, smiling. “Did you have anything in mind? If not, then we’ll just start with the basics and go from there.”

He’s about to shake his head – he’s never cooked anything before, why would he have an idea what to cook now – before he pauses, his mouth opening slightly. Actually… there is… there is one thing.

“Bacon,” he gets out, his hands tightening on his pant legs. “Bacon and peanut butter sandwich.”

Wilson raises his eyebrows but doesn’t get mad. “No bananas?” he asks after a moment.

The Asset shakes his head, a little confused. He doesn’t _remember_ bananas in the sandwich – are bananas important? Is he forgetting them? Maybe—

“Cool,” Wilson says, getting off the stool. “I think there’s bacon in the fridge. “We can make it now.”

The Asset nods, relieved, and moves to follow Wilson into the kitchen watching as he pulls out aprons from a drawer and hands one over to him. It takes him a moment to figure it out, but he copies Wilson as he puts it on and he’s pretty sure — he’s _pretty_ sure — he’s seen a woman wearing one of these before. A woman with brown hair and, and blue eyes.

“Okay, so peanut butter and bacon sandwiches seems pretty straight forward,” Wilson says, and the Asset blinks, looking towards him. “But, let me know if we miss anything.”

He nods and follows Wilson so that they can both wash their hands before getting started. “I’ll get the bacon,” Wilson tells him. “Think you can find a frying pan?”

It takes him a moment to remember where the frying pans are, but he and Handler-Steve had eaten in the common room enough times that he’s able to find it without much trouble. He pulls it out as Wilson comes back, a package of thin, raw meat strips in his hand.

As soon as he catches sight of it, he knows instantly that it’s bacon, and it feels almost like he’s _always_ known that bacon looks like that, like the knowledge had just been sitting in his brain, waiting for the right moment to show itself.

“Do you know how to cook bacon?” Wilson asks, lifting the package a little.

He swallows. “Unknown,” he replies, staring at the food. He’s fairly sure he’s never cooked bacon before but… a part of him feels like he’ll be able to figure it out pretty quickly.

“No big deal,” Wilson replies — and the Asset almost gives a start because a thought hits him like a thunderbolt. If… if he’s calling his handler by his first name, should he start calling _all_ the Avengers by their first names? Does he even _know_ Wilson’s first name? “Cooking bacon is pretty simple,” Wilson continues, cutting off his train of thought. “And,” he gestures at the Asset’s left hand. “You don’t even have to worry about getting burned, so, that’s a plus.”

The Asset blinks a little owlishly at him and Wilson moves on to show him how to set the pan down on the stove and how to turn it on. “Once it’s heated up, we can start cooking,” he says.

The stove is different than the one he sees sometimes in his malfunction/memories. That one had been a great hulking black thing with a fire lit inside. _This_ one is sleek, the stovetop glass, with nothing but simple circles to indicate where to place anything and part of him wonders how it gets warm or maintains heat without a fire.

It heats up just fine though, and soon Wilson is opening up the bacon package, showing him how to lay out the pieces in the pan. “The fat in the bacon spits a little,” he warns as he holds his arm up as far away as he can from the cooking meat, while at the same time trying to drop in a final slice. He turns and hands him a fork. “You shouldn’t have trouble turning them over with your left hand though.”

The Asset feels his mouth quirk up a little and he turns his head to hide it, focusing instead on the cooking food. The smell makes his mouth water and he finds himself shifting a little in anticipation as he slowly begins flipping the frying bacon.

“I’ll get the bread and stuff ready,” Wilson says, turning away to the pantry.

The Asset nods absentmindedly and instinctively looks around for a plate as the first slices of bacon start becoming ready. He doesn’t find one set out yet, so he steps away for a second to grab one out of the cupboard. It isn’t until he’s back at the stove that he pauses to wonder whether he should have waited for instruction from Wilson.

He looks over and the man doesn’t seem bothered, focused instead on pulling out a butter knife for the peanut butter as he hums to himself. The Asset relaxes and turns back to the stove, switching hands so that he can use his metal fingers to help keep the bacon on the fork as he transfers it to the plate. Soon everything is cooked and transferred, and he reaches over to turn off the stove.

“Looks good,” Wilson says as the Asset puts the fork down. “Why don’t you bring it over here and we can dig in.”

He sweeps up the plate and steps over to where Wilson has bread, butter and peanut butter spread out on the counter. Wilson picks up the butter knife and grins at the plate of approaching bacon. “Man, I’m starving,” he says as he reaches over to scrape some butter onto his knife.

The Asset’s eyes widen as Wilson moves and one second, he’s putting the plate down, the next his free hand is snapping around Wilson’s wrist, the knife inches from the bread. Everything seems to still and Wilson tenses for a brief second in his grip before relaxing very carefully.

“Hey,” he says without moving, his eyes flicking up to his. “Something wrong?”

The Asset breathes in and glances over the spread in front of him, trying to figure out what is bothering him. His eyes skip up to the butter knife again and he sets his plate down, single-mindedly reaching over to take the knife out of Wilson’s hand. Wilson lets it go easily, his eyes following the Asset’s every move.

“Wrong,” he mumbles as he scrapes the butter off, his mind racing because he’s not exactly sure what he’s looking for, or why this is important, but butter isn’t the right thing, he needs something else.

“The… the butter’s wrong?” Wilson asks hesitantly and the Asset nods, letting go of his wrist and setting the knife down, his eyes scanning over the condiments already laid out.

“What’s it supposed to be?” Wilson asks confused, taking a step back and watching him as he moves purposely over to the pantry, opening it to scan the contents inside.

“Something else,” he replies, pausing for a second, trying to catch onto the wisps of whatever it is floating around in his brain. “White.”

“White?” Wilson questions, and the Asset nods again, moving boxes of pasta around as he searches. Yes, white. White… something. He closes the pantry and moves over to the fridge. “But not butter,” Wilson confirms.

He shakes his head and pulls the door open, barely minding the cold air as he searches for… for the thing. Peanut butter, bacon and…

He spots a jar of something smooth and white on the door and he grabs it, twisting off the cap and sticking a finger in without thinking, his brain completely focused on his mission to find whatever it is he’s looking for. He pulls his finger out and licks it, his shoulders relaxing as he tastes it. Yes, this one.

He turns to Wilson and holds out the jar. “This,” he says simply.

“ _Mayonnaise?_ ” Wilson says incredulously, his face twisting up as he leans back slightly. The Asset nods and shuts the fridge door, heading back to the counter. “I’m not putting _mayonnaise_ on a peanut butter sandwich,” Wilson continues, his mouth open in disbelief.

The Asset sets the jar down with a clack, his jaw stiffening. Internally, his stomach twists with uneasiness at his insistence, he knows he should probably just listen to Wilson but… but this is _definitely_ how it’s supposed to be eaten and Wilson had _said_ to tell him if they were missing anything. “Yes,” he says determinedly.

Wilson eyes him for a second, his eyes wide, before his mouth quirks up in amusement. “Alright then,” he says bemusedly, coming over to settle into a chair and shaking his head a little in disbelief.

The Asset nods stiffly at him and relaxes, waiting until Wilson has served himself (the man eying the mayonnaise dubiously the whole time) before he makes his own sandwich. His right hand shakes slightly as he spreads his peanut butter, his brain getting the chance to catch up with his recent actions.

He flicks his eyes nervously up to Wilson, wondering if he will report his behavior to his handler. Handler-Steve had said that the other Avengers wouldn’t be reporting to him but… but he can never be too careful.

Wilson doesn’t look mad though, his expression is a little strange as he bites into his sandwich, but he doesn’t look _mad_. The Asset drops his eyes back down to his own food and finally takes a bite.

His worry over Wilson vanishes as the… _familiar_ taste of peanut butter, bacon and mayonnaise fills his mouth. His eyes widen and he takes another bite.

“Hey, make sure you don’t eat too much,” Wilson reminds him suddenly. “Steve will get mad at me if I get you sick or something.”

The Asset nods distractedly, trying to savour the taste of peanut butter in his mouth. He really _really_ likes this. He doesn’t want to get Wilson in trouble though, so he only eats about half the sandwich, his eyes lingering on it longingly once he sets it down.

“Well that was stranger than I thought it would be,” Wilson says dryly as he finishes his sandwich and dusts off his hands. He glances over at him and a soft smile slides over his face. “Hey, don’t worry about the leftovers,” he says, standing up to start putting the dishes in the sink. “We can make more later, or, you know, any other weird recipe you suddenly get a craving for.”

The Asset nods a little uncertainly and moves to help Wilson with the dishes. Wilson starts filling up the sink and adding soap before pausing and looking over to him. “Do you want to wash?” he offers, and the Asset stares at him. He’s never washed before; his handler always does that. He flicks his gaze over to the water and then back up to Wilson, unsure how to respond. “It’s easy,” Wilson says, offering him the cloth and turning off the water to the sink. “Just rub until all the food’s off.”

He accepts the cloth slowly and moves over to stand by the sink, grabbing the first dish he sees. It happens to be the frying pan, and next to him, Wilson gives a start.

“Hang on a sec,” he says, before going over to a role of paper towels. “We don’t want that grease going down the drain,” he explains as he wipes out the pan and throws the paper towel into the trash.

The Asset scans the pan for a second longer before finally submerging it. The water is pleasantly warm, and he takes the cloth that Wilson had given him and begins to scrub at the inside of the pan. He quickly realises that he can feel the difference between the clean and dirty parts of the pan under his cloth and he relaxes a little at that.

Once the pan is clean, he rinses it and hands it off to Wilson, turning to grab the knives they had used next. Wilson gives him a small smile of encouragement and the Asset feels a bubble of pride rise in his chest at a task well done. He wonders if maybe his handler will let him wash dishes sometimes. 

After dishes, his handler isn’t back yet and Wilson tells him he can go back to his room if he wants. He feels more tired than he had been expecting after cooking, so he accepts, glad to get the chance to sit quietly for a little bit. While he might appreciate being trained by the Avengers and his handler, it’s still a lot of work and a lot of new things to learn, so it's nice not to have to do anything once and a while.

He sits down heavily on the couch and leans his head back, closing his eyes. He still has the slight aftertaste of salt and peanut butter in his mouth and he swallows, running his tongue over his teeth. He hopes Wilson will let him cook again soon.

Maybe they can even make something for his handler to eat.

He opens his eyes and sits up. Yes, that would be nice. His handler needs to eat, he remembers worrying about that a long time ago, when his handler was small. It has got to still be important _now,_ right? He glances over to his handler’s room. Sleeping is _also_ probably important, and his handler seems to be having a hard time with that.

He stands up and edges closer to the room, part of him still waiting for JARVIS or somebody to burst in and stop him. JARVIS keeps quiet as he peers around the half-open door, his eyes trained on his handler’s impeccably made bed, while his heart pounds loudly away in his chest.

He hadn’t gotten in trouble the last time he’d gone into his handler’s room, his handler hadn’t seemed to mind at all but… he probably shouldn’t make a habit of it. What would it look like to his handler if every time he left him alone he found him later, invading his privacy?

Still… something is wrong with his handler’s bed. He has trouble sleeping on it and… he’s not going to be able to figure out how to fix it if he doesn’t know what’s _wrong_ in the first place.

He slips inside, careful not to bump the door, his ears straining for any alert from JARVIS. He has to be fast this time, he doesn’t know how long he has until his handler comes back, and he absolutely _cannot_ be caught this time.

With that in mind, he loses no time in marching up to the bed and scanning it, searching for any clue as to why his handler would rather _sleep on the floor_ than on top of it. He can’t find anything off the bat, and he soon finds himself running his hands carefully over the sheets and looking under the bed, still not completely sure what he’s even looking for.

In desperation he checks behind each pillow before sitting dejectedly down on the bed. He sinks down deeper than he had been expecting and he blinks down at the mattress. His handler’s bed is _soft._ Softer than the couch for sure, and he runs his hand over the bedspread again before hesitantly leaning back until his shoulders hit the bed.

He stares up at the ceiling for a moment, breathing in as the bed sinks under him. His handler’s bed is definitely softer than the couch in the living room, and the blankets feel thick and warm. It seems comfortable enough, so he can’t really understand why his handler seems to be having so much trouble.

He sits up and is almost dizzy as he stands, the softness of the bed suddenly disorientating. He gives his head a shake as he straightens out the sheets where he had been sitting and stands up straight. He may not understand why his handler is having trouble sleeping, but… His eyes narrow and he slips out of the room.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not going to try to figure out a way to fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit, the mayonnaise scene is probably one of my favourite things I’ve ever written, and I had to wait almost THREE months before I could post it for you guys XD.
> 
> Bucky: *pulls out mayonnaise*  
> Sam: 404 Error
> 
> Seriously though, bacon, peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich is a real 30s recipe. They had WEIRD sandwiches back then, let me tell you.  
> Also, the bacon, peanut butter, and banana sandwich Sam mentioned is called an Elvis sandwich apparently. I found it when looking up my sandwich (Elvis also liked weird sandwiches) but that was invented in the 70s, so Bucky wouldn’t know it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset confronts his handler's aversion to sleeping on beds

The bed has to be the problem — or at least _part_ of it. He can’t help noticing— now that he allows himself to pay closer attention to his handler beyond what might pertain to a mission—that Handler-Steve has issues and preferences that seem to operate outside of a mission context.

In retrospect the realisation seems pretty obvious, but the thought is still a little strange. His handler has his own problems because his handler is a person outside of being, well, his handler. Which means that he can have problems and needs and feelings that have nothing to do with handling or missions at all.

For example, he always seems to scowl at the fridge, and while the Asset can’t begin to imagine why he does that, the scowl and distaste for the fridge seems to have nothing to do with him, and his handler’s disgruntled feelings around cold things never bleeds into his actual handling.

For as long as the Asset can remember, everything his handlers have ever done were Important Mission-Related things, or, important-things-to-notice-to-avoid-being-punished. Here though, his handler does things that aren’t related to him (or a mission) at all.

It doesn’t _matter_ if he doesn’t know why his handler hates cold things. It doesn’t _matter_ if he doesn’t know why his handler sleeps on the floor—because his handler doesn’t expect him to know why. His handler doesn’t expect him to react intuitively and anticipate his actions because his handler does things that don’t matter to him.

It feels rather strange, consciously thinking of him and his handler as two separate people, who do separate things and have separate goals. It makes it harder to determine what really _is_ important, and it doesn’t help that even though he doesn’t _need_ to know why his handler does certain things… he _wants_ to know. He wants to know why his handler doesn’t sleep and why he doesn’t like cold things and he wants to know how to _fix_ it. (Whether or not these urges are part of his programming or mission-related… he’s not sure.)

(They must be. They _must_ be. Where else could they have come from?)

Still, now that he’s aware of it, it’s hard not to get distracted by his handler’s issues (he’d like to believe he’s only concerned because he wants to be ready if Handler-Steve’s issues start interfering with him or the mission, but he’s pretty sure that isn’t true), so he finds himself a lot more relieved than is probably appropriate when he wakes up one day to find that his handler has somehow acquired a pair of slippers.

The slippers are blue and grey (he nods at that because blue is Important) and they spend most of their time sitting out of the way by the entrance of the kitchen. The days are steadily getting warmer and JARVIS keeps the indoor temperature regulated, so his handler doesn’t have to wear them much around the tower, but he does slip them on every time he goes to open the freezer.

The Asset can’t help relaxing a little at that. He might not know why his handler doesn’t like cold, and he might not know how _he_ can help with it, but the slippers _do_ seem to help, so that’s good.

Of course, that doesn’t really help him with why his handler doesn’t sleep on his _bed_ , but it’s a start. 

He’s still mulling the problem over the next time his handler leaves and Wilson offers to teach him to cook again. He accepts of course, and since Wilson had seemed a little skeptical of the sandwiches last time, he lets him choose what to make this time.

“Pancakes seem alright to you?” Wilson says as they tie on their aprons. “They’re pretty universal.”

The Asset nods absentmindedly and follows along as Wilson shows him how to measure out and mix the ingredients. Wilson chats lightheartedly as they work and the Asset finds that he enjoys the lack of silence. It feels nice to be… included in the work, rather than being watched and judge like he would have been back with Hydra.

“Flipping the pancakes is the fun part,” Wilson tells him as they stand over the stove, a spatula in hand. He slips the spatula under the cooking batter and flips it over with practiced ease. “Sometimes it gets stuck on the side of the pan,” he warns as he waits for the other side to cook. He grins. “One time I actually flip the whole thing completely out of the pan and onto the floor.” He scoops up the cooked pancake and transfers it over to a waiting plate before pouring some more batter into the pan and handing the spatula over. “How ‘bout you give it a try?”

The Asset accepts the spatula and settles in front of the stove, watching for the telltale bubbles that will tell him when the pancake is ready to be flipped. The smell of cooking batter and hot oil is pleasant, and the weight of the spatula feels natural in his hand, even though he’s pretty sure he’s never done this before. He lifts up the edge of the pancake to check for doneness and prepares to flip it to the other side—

— _He lifts the pan and grins mischievously at the two girls seated in front of him. The older one rolls her eyes, but smiles, and the younger one’s pig-tails bob as she covers her mouth and giggles, her eyes on the hot pan._

_“Prepare to be amazed,” he tells them dramatically, flinging out his other arm and swirling the pan a little._

_The older girl’s smile grows as she shakes her head and the giggles from the younger girl intensify, her legs swinging as she bounces with impatience in her chair. “Make it fly!” She chants excitedly, her eyes sparkling._

_His grin widens and he looks down at the pan. “Ready?” he teases, lowering the pan a little before flicking his wrist and watching in satisfaction as the batter inside flips over expertly._

_Alic- lets out a shriek of delight and—_

“Woah.”

Reality drops back in and the Asset realises suddenly that not only is he standing holding the pan a few inches above the stove, but that he had just flipped its contents exactly like he had in the malfunction/memory and he had done all that _in front of Wilson_. 

The pan lands back on the stove with a clang and he whips his head around to stare at Wilson, his eyes wide. His heart pounds uncomfortably in his chest as he tenses, waiting for the man’s response to his actions. Wilson hadn’t taught him how to flip pancakes— it must be obvious then that that skill had come from somewhere else and if Wilson finds out he’s malfunctioning— that has to be bad right— he’s not _allowed_ to malfunction— (He wonders who those two girls were, he’d seemed to know them—)

“Cool trick,” Wilson says with a smile, seemingly unaware of the gravity of the situation. “My dad and I used to do that all the time.”

The Asset blinks slowly at him and continues to stare, unable to decide how to respond. Wilson doesn’t seem mad at his malfunction but…

“I bet I can flip it higher though,” Wilson challenges, a playful glint in his eye. The Asset blinks at him again and Wilson takes the pan from his hand, transferring the current pancake and pouring more batter inside as the Asset shifts away to make more room.

Wilson flashes him a quick grin before turning to stare intently at the heating pan, his hand poised on the handle like his life depends on it. His behaviour is inexplicable, and the Asset can’t help the furling of his brow as he watches.

Wilson seems… amused, and he’s not exactly sure what to do with that.

After a few moments, Wilson triumphantly flips the pancake and from the gleeful look on his face, the Asset can only assume that he’d managed to do it higher. He’s not certain why that is particularly _important_ to Wilson, but… maybe he is trying to assert himself, prove that he’s better than the Asset in some way.

“Think you can do better?” Wilson says, cutting into his train of thought as he pours more batter into the pan and steps away.

The Asset narrows his eyes and scans Wilson as he approaches the stove again. He can sense no hostility from the man, and he can’t decide if Wilson truly wants to know if he can flip the food higher, or if he wants the Asset to fail and thus prove his superiority.

He has no reason to believe that Wilson might play mind games with him, he _seems_ pretty genuine, and part of him has to admit that he _is_ a little curious as to whether or not he can beat Wilson at this competition.

His resolve hardens and he grips the handle of the pan, waiting for the pancakes to finish cooking. He won’t try to fail on purpose for the moment, if Wilson gets mad or seems upset, then he’ll know for future reference not to challenge him, for now the playing field is equal.

The batter cooks soon enough and he readies himself, flicking his wrist to flip the pancake into the air and watching as it flies up a few inches higher than Wilson’s had. Satisfaction wells up in his chest and he turns the pan back to Wilson, stepping away.

A grin splits Wilson’s face and he grabs the pan. “Oh, it’s _on_ now,” he says, as he waits for the pancake to finish cooking, his tone light enough to be teasing and not angry.

The Asset finds his mouth trying to pull up in amusement as he watches Wilson transfer the pancake and pour more batter. He pushes the urge to… to smile(?) away as quickly as possible, but he can’t change the pleased feeling that seems to settle in his chest.

The contest continues as they slowly work their way through the prepared batter and eventually they’re forced to move away from the stove as they flip so they can have more space to let things fly.

“Alright.” Wilson widens his stance as he holds the pan in front of himself, shifting a little as he prepares for his turn. “And the winner is—”

He moves to flip the pancake and at that very second, the elevator doors ding open. The sound must startle Wilson because his hand jerks with more force than usual and they both watch transfixed as the pancake flies up in to the air, landing with a solid _splat_ on the ceiling.

In slow motion they both turn to look towards the elevator, Handler-Steve frozen mid-step a few feet away, his eyes pinned on the ceiling. Everything seems to still for a moment and the Asset feels his pulse pick up as he desperately hopes that he and Wilson haven’t been acting out of turn.

Sure, Wilson had been supposed to teach him to cook, but a pancake flipping contest probably isn’t part of that, never _mind_ the fact that they’d managed to make a mess on the _ceiling_ —

“You guys having fun I take it?” his handler says finally, looking back at them, a distinct glint of amusement in his eyes.

“You know it,” Wilson replies easily, moving to turn off the stove. Above him, the pancake peels off the ceiling and falls to the floor with a _thwack._ “You have perfect timing,” Wilson comments and the Asset cautiously starts relaxing, the calm expression on his handler’s face making punishment for his recent kitchen exploits seem unlikely.

“Oh?” Handler-Steve approaches and leans against the kitchen island, seemingly unbothered by the recent events.

“Yeah, we just finished,” Wilson says, indicating the now empty batter bowl and the large stack of cooked pancakes. “I’m guessing you won’t mind helping us eat these up.”

His handler chuckles and the Asset finds himself moving instinctively to set the table with plates and cutlery as Wilson cleans up the spoiled pancake and chats lightly with his handler. For his part, the Asset is still a little tense from the close call, but he finds himself calming down quickly enough and a part of him feels immense satisfaction at being allowed to feed his handler _himself._

Usually Handler-Steve is the one to take care of meals, which he doesn’t mind, but there are no slippers here in the common room and the Asset is glad that he can help his handler avoid using the freezer without them.

oOo

A few days later he’s alone in the room, busy folding and putting away a recent load of laundry while he waits for his handler to return. He'd just come back from a walk with Bruce and his handler hadn’t been in his room when he’d returned, but he hadn’t been too concerned. It feels kind of nice to have some time away from everyone and he knows Handler-Steve will come back soon enough. He’s just glad that the laundry is here to keep him occupied, he still feels a little strange entertaining himself while alone, but it now feels strange to simply do nothing as well.

“Sergeant Barnes?”

His hands still on his half-folded jeans and he looks up at the ceiling.

“If you could make your way down to the gym,” JARVIS says. “Captain Rogers is waiting.”

He blinks a little in surprise because Handler-Steve has never summoned him like this before, but he complies quickly enough, setting aside the clothes and heading out towards the elevator. On his way down he can’t help wondering at his handler’s decision to call him to the gym. So far, they have yet to train together since the time when the Avengers had gone away. He’s done a few sessions with other members of the team, but none with his handler.

JARVIS lets him off and he steps into the gym to hear the steady and familiar rhythm of his handler pounding away on the hanging bags. His brow furls as he pauses a few feet away and scans his handler. Handler-Steve doesn’t seem to realise he’s entered the room, his handler’s eyes completely focused on the bags in front of him, a damp line of sweat darkening the back of his shirt and a persistent jingling sounding from his phone sitting a few feet away on a bench.

He narrows his eyes, his mind flashing back to the other two times he’s seen his handler zoning out on the punching bags and his gaze catches on a couple of water bottles on the bench next to his handler’s phone. In front of him his handler throws a particularly heavy punch and the Asset clenches his teeth.

 _It’s important to take breaks,_ that’s what Barton had said, and from the looks of it, his handler hadn’t taken one for a while. Determination flares in his gut and he marches over to the bench intending to grab one of the water bottles and offer it to his handler. That had seemed to go over rather well last time, so it’s probably a safe enough option now.

His eyes catch on the screen of his handler’s phone as he reaches for one of the water bottles and the words **Break Time** flash at him in time with the ringing alarm. He stares at it for a second before looking back towards his handler, who is showing no signs of stopping. His resolve sharpens even further, and he sweeps up the phone along with the water before marching to stand next to the bag and his handler.

It takes a moment, but his handler catches sight of him as he steps back from his most recent bout and he pauses, his chest heaving, a look of confusion flashing in his eyes.

The Asset shoves the phone and water towards him, his back stiff and his shoulders tense. “Break,” he almost snaps in his determinedness. _It’s important to take breaks._

“Ah,” his handler wipes his mouth with his hand and a faint blush covers his cheeks as he reaches out for the proffered items. “Right. Sorry.”

He takes the phone and silences the alarm before opening the water bottle and taking a long drink. The Asset follows him with his eyes as his handler wipes his brow and makes his way over to sit on the bench, water still in hand.

“I’m trying to work on that,” he says quietly, seemingly to the water. “Sorry you had to be called down here, I guess the alarm wasn’t enough.”

The Asset flicks his eyes down to his handler’s wrapped hands, his mind pulling up the image of his handler’s previously bloodied knuckles. The bandages are clean today and he feels a little relieved at the sight. Without a word, he moves to go sit down beside his handler, listening as his breathing begins to slow into a more regulated pace.

It doesn’t seem he’ll be doing any training with his handler today, but one look at the white bandages on his handler’s hands and he finds he doesn’t mind much. It’s… good that his handler is trying to be better in that area, and he’s glad that he’d been able to help with it, even just a little. 

oOo

He doesn’t know what to do about the bed though. That night he stays up so that he can write down his daily malfunction/memories, and he’s yet again interrupted by his handler’s restless sleeping. He doesn’t hear him move to sleep on the floor, which is a relief, but he has to admit that he doesn’t enjoy standing by while his handler seems to be having difficulty.

Obviously the bed has something to do with it. His handler wouldn’t move to sleep on the floor if the bed wasn’t a problem… but he doesn’t know what to _do_ with that information. He stays awake longer than he probably should, staring up in the dark as he tries to sort through his dilemma.

 _Maybe this will work better if I decide to approach it like a mission,_ he decides after a while, resolve settling like a weight in his stomach. It might not be exactly orthodox to assign himself his own mission but… he finds he doesn’t really care.

**Mission** : ‘Help Handler-Steve Sleep’, kicks off and he spends his days carefully observing his handler, trying to find clues that can help him solve his problem.

As far as he can tell, Handler-Steve makes no mention of his sleeping troubles to any of the other Avengers, which makes sense, since he’s their leader and is probably reluctant to admit any weakness to them. (But, the Asset can’t help thinking that the Avengers probably wouldn’t lose respect for their Captain if he did admit anything.)

Either way, his handler’s self-imposed censorship on the matter makes it difficult to learn anything about it. Handler-Steve seems perfectly determined to suffer in silence and the Asset can’t help grinding his teeth together a little in frustration at that.

 _He’s so stubborn,_ he thinks crossly, fighting to keep from glaring ahead of himself as he forgoes sleep again and contemplates his problem. He can’t remember ever having to be annoyed at his handler’s behaviour before, but this is definitely testing his limits. With a sigh he sets his jaw and tries to go over what he knows for sure.

 **Fact:** His handler has trouble sleeping

 **Fact:** His handler seems to have less trouble sleeping on the floor

 **Fact:** He brings the blankets with him to the floor, so those are not the problem

 **Fact:** JARVIS said eight hours of sleep are important, but his handler said that five is okay because of the serum

He purses his lips. He’s not sure exactly how many hours a night his handler sleeps, but even if he _does_ get the recommended amount, they certainly aren’t _restful_. His handler must be tired all the time then, if he isn’t sleeping well, although he doesn’t seem to show it much.

 _He always pushes himself too hard,_ Barton had said one time when Handler-Steve had fallen asleep on the couch. He blinks. Right. The couch, his handler hadn’t seemed to have a problem falling asleep there, so maybe _that_ is a better option, rather than the floor—

Except. Except _he’s_ sleeping on the couch. His handler can’t sleep on the couch because that’s _his_ bed. Something heavy drops into his stomach and he swallows uneasily. Is his presence in his handler’s room a problem? If his handler can’t sleep on the bed but _can_ sleep on the couch then shouldn’t their arrangement be the other way around?

He winces and tries to shove the thought away. He can’t sleep on his _handler’s_ bed. The Asset isn’t supposed to have better sleeping accommodations than his handler. Except… his handler can’t _sleep_ on his bed, he’s sleeping on the _floor_ instead. So— so is the couch really the lesser of the two options? Should he give up the couch to his handler? But then _he would be sleeping on the bed._

 _Maybe_ I _can sleep on the floor,_ he thinks a little desperately, trying to find an agreeable solution to his dilemma. Either he sleeps on the bed, couch or the floor, but his handler definitely should _not_ be sleeping on the floor—

— _“I was gonna ask…”_

_“I know what you’re gonna say Buck, it’s just…” He fights to keep from sighing as Steve deflects his offer, his shoulders hunching as he heads towards his door._

_“We could put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids,” he wheedles, trying to make the offer seem casual and light enough that his friend will accept. “It’ll be fun, all you gotta do is shine my shoes, maybe, take out the trash…”_

_Steve is rifling through his pockets with an air of concern and the routine is familiar enough that he doesn’t hesitate to look down and kick away a loose brick, reaching down to hand over the revealed spare key. “Com’on,” he says._

_‘Please,’ he thinks as Steve takes the key. ‘Let me help you.’_

_Steve looks down, his jaw flexing. “Thank you, Buck,” he says, looking up, his determined words doing nothing to hide the pain in his eyes. “But I can get by on my own.”_

_He shakes his head. Steve is always so stubborn, determined to prove himself to a world that thinks he’s weak but… “Thing is… you don’t have to,” he replies, wishing for Steve to get it, for him to understand that he doesn’t have to fight the whole world by himself because– “I’m with you till the end of the line pal.”—_

He sucks in a slow breath and lets it out. He’s pretty sure that had been one of his longest malfunction/memories yet and it feels… it feels extra important. He’d wanted to help Handler-Steve in the malfunction/memory, he can’t remember why his handler had been so sad, but he’d wanted to help even though Handler-Steve had been determined to do it by himself.

 _And I offered him the couch cushions,_ he thinks, running a hand through his hair and trying to decide if that is a hint for what to do _now_ , or if he should just ignore it. Did he and his handler share couch cushions in the past? Should they do that now?

He doesn’t know and he lefts out a huff of frustrated air before sitting up and shuffling over to his dresser, ready to write down this latest confusing malfunction/memory.

oOo

He decides against offering any couch cushions. Doing so would tip his handler off to his malfunctions/memories and he’s still not quite sure if those are acceptable, so it’s probably better not to mention them right now.

That doesn’t solve his current problem though at it keeps nagging him as the days go by, seeming to grow bigger and bigger the longer he mulls it over. He’s aware of himself to notice that the more he worries over it the less responsive he seems to be to his handler and the world around him and the realisation leaves him panicked because the _last_ thing he wants to do is be an ineffective asset. He needs to figure this out, just like his dilemma with big and small Steve, so that he can move _on_ from it and be a good asset.

 **Problem:** Handler-Steve can’t sleep on his bed.

 _Solution:_ Offer the couch

Subproblem: The Asset cannot sleep on the bed either

Subproblem: His handler deserves to sleep on a bed

 _Solution Two:_ Get a better bed

Subproblem Two: Assistance required from outside sources

Around him, the world shifts out of focus as he settles into himself and examines his solutions. His handler is patient enough with him that he can afford to tune-out a little and try to figure this out. The idea of getting his handler another bed might be the best solution since then their current sleeping arrangements don’t need to change but…

But he can’t get his handler a new bed himself. He doubts even JARVIS would be able to do it without outside help, which means… he needs to get help from one of the other Avengers. His handler doesn’t seem willing to deal with his problem, so he doubts his handler will approach the Avengers _himself_ …

Which means _he_ has to do it.

The thought sets him sinking deeper into his programming, the very _idea_ of going behind his handler’s back and revealing a weakness of his, almost too much too bare.

 _But he needs help!_ He thinks desperately, trying to ride out the storm of his mind. His handler needs help and— and isn’t it his _job_ to help his handler? Shouldn’t he help his handle if he can? He grits his teeth, the movement of others around him a blur as he fights his programming.

 _Yes,_ he decides determinedly. He _should_ help his handler. According to his malfunction/memories he’d done it before, and he can do it now.

That leaves who to ask.

The question leaves him stumped for a while and he continues to eat and respond to orders mechanically, function at minimum capacity as he sorts through his programming and thought process. (His handler has yet to get mad at him and a distant part of him is continually grateful to him for allowing him the space to figure this out. He doubts most of his previous handlers would have been this understanding.)

 _And I’m going to repay him by revealing his weakness to his teammates,_ he thinks despairingly.

It can’t be helped. He has to. His handler needs help and he will take whatever punishment necessary afterwards, as long as his handler gets the help he needs.

He narrows down his choice of Avengers to Stark. He’d been a little reluctant at the idea since he has yet to spend much time with Stark and doesn’t know him very well. Unlike the rest of the Avengers, Stark has yet to take him anywhere or train him in any skills. They haven’t really talked at all, but Stark and his handler seem to respect each other, and Stark seems to be in charge of supplying the Avengers team, so if anyone can get his handler a better bed, it will be Stark.

Choosing Stark doesn’t exactly make the rest of it easy though. He’s acutely aware that talking to Stark about his handler’s issues is a _huge_ breech in protocol and his handler will be well within his rights to be furious afterwards but…

The pained expression of little-Steve from his malfunction/memory flashes before his eyes and his resolve hardens. It doesn’t matter what happens afterwards. This needs to be done.

Of course, that doesn’t make it easy to actually find Stark and ask him. It’s not like he can request to visit him, and Stark doesn’t exactly seek him out either, so for a while he despairs at ever getting the chance to acquire his help.

Thankfully, a few days after he’d first fallen into the depths of his programming while trying to find an acceptable solution, his handler takes them up to the common room for breakfast, and Stark is already there, sitting at the counter like an answer to prayer.

His world sharpens into focus as he settles at the other end of the counter and tries to come up with the necessary words. Across from him, his handler rattles around the kitchen, his movements stiffer and sharper than usual.

The Asset swallows uneasily and flicks a glance towards Stark. He’s aware enough of his surroundings now to understand that his handler isn’t exactly in a good mood and that his mission to talk to Stark might just make things worse but… but if he waits too long then he might lose his chance and everything will start all _over_ again.

His handler sets oatmeal and a smoothie down in front of him before taking a seat across from him and taking a few half-hearted bites, his face clouded with tired lines. The Asset finds his heart pounding a little faster and his hand shakes slightly as he reaches for his smoothie.

He doesn’t want to make his handler mad, but he wants his handler to be able to _sleep_ too.

Stark stands up, making his way towards the sink, and the Asset’s heart skips a beat as he realises that if he doesn’t speak up _soon_ then Stark will leave, and he will lose his chance to speak at all. His mouth opens and closes a few times as he watches Stark’s progress, his mind desperately trying to drag up the words he needs.

“Steve needs—” He almost chokes as across from him his handler’s head snaps up and Stark freezes up at his words. “Steve needs’a bed,” he rushes out, his shoulders hunching and his pulse loud in his ears as he pins Stark with his gaze. “He c’n’t sleep’on his.”

His throat closes up and he clamps his mouth shut trying to breathe in evenly through his nose as he waits for the reaction to his words. He’d spoken out of turn and revealed a weakness of his handler’s to a teammate and—

 _And I didn’t even call him by his title!_ His brain wails and he tenses, blood draining from his face as he realises that he’d been so intent on talking that he hadn’t been paying attention to his _actual words_ and he’d called his handler _Steve._ Not Handler-Rogers, not even Handler-Steve, just Steve.

 _Not good,_ he thinks frantically. _Not good, not good—_

“Steve?” Stark asks a little uncertainly, breaking into his downward spiral. “Is that right?”

His eyes snap back to his handler and he tries to hold as still as possible, barely daring to breathe as he waits for Handler-Steve’s response. His heart pounds steadily in his chest, and he’s fairly certain that he _must_ have reached the end of his handler’s benevolence by now. There’s _no way_ this is acceptable.

“Ah—” He almost flinches as his handler finally speaks, unable to keep from noticing how his handler’s hands clench on the counter in front of him. “Ah, well, my bed’s kind of…” His handler’s voice is thin and awkward and a faint blush spreads over his cheeks as he turns to address Stark. “It's kind of… too soft for me, so— I have a hard time… sleeping on it.”

The Asset stares.

He’d fully expected anger or a complete denial or both. Stark would believe his handler’s word over his, so all his handler would have had to do was vehemently deny everything and there would have been nothing the Asset could have done about it but now…

By the sink Stark waves his hand indignantly and begins to rant about the different levels of firmness in mattresses, while at the same time thoroughly chewing-out Handler-Steve for keeping quiet about his problem for so long, his words letting the Asset know that he’d made the right choice in choosing Stark to tell about his handler’s bed.

His handler takes the lecture with a mix of fondness and embarrassment and the Asset can feel his mouth flicker upwards without his permission as he slowly allows himself to relax, the likelihood of punishment falling by the second.

A feeling of smug satisfaction grows in his chest and he reaches for his glass, raising it to help conceal what on anyone else might be the beginnings of a smirk. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a lot of fun figuring out Bucky's thought process during this. He still has some Hydra logic that he has to work around, but he's definitely willing to do that.  
> And, of course, his cooking shenanigans with Sam continue. Can you imagine being Steve walking into that? XD


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Fourth of July arrives.

Stark makes good on his promise and his handler’s new bed arrives within a few days. The Asset can’t help feeling a little proud as he looks it over and helps his handler transfer it into his room. His handler doesn’t seem upset with his decision to tell Stark about his problem and no punishment follows his actions. (Although at this point, he almost thinks he’d be more surprised if he _did_ get punished, rather than not.)

Still, he doesn’t think it appropriate to inform the rest of the Avengers of his handler’s issue when they gather together a few days later, his handler gone again to his doctor’s appointment. Nobody else seems concerned by how frequently his handler goes to the doctor, but he can’t help the anxiety that crawls around in his stomach as he cautiously sits down in the living room with the others. Surely if something is truly wrong with his handler, then the rest of the team wouldn’t be so relaxed right now, so he probably doesn’t need to worry.

That doesn’t exactly stop him though.

“Okay,” Stark speaks up, rubbing his hands together and calling the room to attention. “We have about an hour before Cap gets back and about a week and a half until his birthday, any ideas?”

In his seat on the couch across from Stark the Asset feels his eyes widen and his breath stall in his chest – out of surprise instead of the usual fear. He’d forgotten about his handler’s birthday. Actually, he’d forgotten about birthdays in general until a few seconds ago but now that Stark had mentioned it he’s suddenly _intimately_ aware that a birthday is something to be celebrated and _he has no idea how to do that._

“He probably won’t want something over-the-top,” Romanoff speaks up first, crossing one leg over her knee and folding her arms.

Stark nods. “Yeah, and fireworks are a no-go,” he says decisively and the Asset scans him briefly, wondering a little at the decision.

“Can’t we just do what we did last year?” Banner asks from his place next to Wilson. “Have a dinner and play games or something?”

Stark hums for a moment and folds his arms. “That should work,” he says finally before looking up. “Clint, you’re in charge of board games.”

A startled look of surprise flashes over Barton’s face before he smiles. “Perfect,” he says before Natasha nudges him.

“Have at least _one_ safe game,” she says with a raised eyebrow and Barton sputters.

“Are we getting him presents?” Wilson asks over Barton’s defensive protests. The room quiets as he speaks, and everyone looks thoughtful again.

“We got him art supplies last year,” Clint says after a moment, flopping back. “So, we probably can’t do that again.”

“Who says?” Stark cuts in, leaning forward and waving his hand. “I could get him like, a Monet or something—”

“No,” Romanoff says flatly. “That’s too big. We’re trying not to go overboard, remember?”

“Yeah.” Barton sits up. “And besides, if you do that then we’ll have to top that _next_ year.”

Stark huffs and leans back, shrugging his shoulder and gesturing to the group. “Well, what do _you_ think then? Steve has like, zero hobbies.” The Asset’s brow furls at that because the concept feels wrong to him, but he doesn’t know why. His mind flashes back to the disturbingly blank walls of his handler’s room and he presses his lips together.

“Bucky said he likes cats,” Barton speaks up, and suddenly all eyes turn to him. The Asset tenses at the attention and tries not to cringe away.

“What, really?” Stark leans forward intrigued. “I always thought he’d be the golden retriever type.”

His hands migrate together in his lap and he ducks his head. “Too big,” he mumbles. Dogs had been too big and needed too much exercise for their Brooklyn apartment. Of course, they couldn’t have a cat _either_ because Steve was allergic so—

“We’re not getting him a cat,” Romanoff says pointedly to Stark.

“Give me a _little_ credit here,” Stark protests, waving his hand. “I was thinking cat pjs or a coffee mug or something.” 

“That works for a nice side gift,” Wilson says, placing his elbows on his knees and leaning forward. “But do we have any ideas for anything more personal?”

Silence falls again and the Asset racks his brain along with everyone else. For some reason he feels like he should have an idea of what to get his handler for his birthday, although he can’t exactly remember ever having done that before—

— _he swings his legs eagerly, grinning at Steve as they both wait as patiently as possible for his Ma to bring over the cake. Music plays quietly in the background, filling the room with a festive spirit and soon Ma Rogers steps over to the table, a plate held carefully in her hands—_

He blinks, a feeling of left-over excitement settling in his chest as he comes out of the malfunction/memory. Given the context, he’s pretty sure that one had been about a birthday party with his handler when they had been younger. He narrows his eyes as he analyses it, the Avenger’s discussion about his handler’s favorite books fading into the background as he searches the snippet for any clues as to what his handler might like _now_. He hadn't seen any presents but—

His head snaps up and his eyes widen as he mentally tallies all of his handler’s possessions. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have that—

“Bucky? Did you think of something?”

His eyes dart to Dr Banner and he shrinks down again slightly, suddenly becoming aware of how animated he’d been as all the Avengers turn to look at him again.

“Yeah, you probably know him the best out of all of us,” Barton says, leaning forward and the Asset’s brow furls slightly at that. Something about that feels… wrong. Maybe he _had_ known his handler, and maybe they _had_ worked together before, but he hardly remembers him right now. Shouldn’t his handler’s current teammates know him better?

He doesn’t know how to express all that in words though, and besides, it hardly seems relevant to the matter at hand, namely, the reason why everyone is staring at him. He swallows uneasily and darts his eyes down, his idea now feeling ridiculous.

“Did you have something, Bucky?” Wilson asks gently and the Asset’s eyes jump up to him before glancing away again.

“Records,” he rasps, the word feeling foreign in his mouth. A hazy half-solid image of some sort of machine rises in his mind and he’s fairly certain that that had been the source of the music in his most recent malfunction/memory but the whole thing remains shrouded in confusion. He knows what records are, he does, it’s just— the knowledge sits tantalizing on the edge of his brain, elusive, so that he can only get a vague impression of what he’s talking about.

Thankfully the Avengers seem to know, and seem to like the suggestion.

“Of _course_.” Stark sits back, his shoulders dropping. “He doesn’t have a record player already, does he JARVIS?”

“He does not, Sir.” JARVIS replies. “He has however made a playlist of favourite songs.”

Grins spread over the faces of the team and Stark rubs his hands together. “Perfect,” he says. “Let’s hear it.”

Over the next half an hour, the Avengers listen to snatches of various songs and debate which ones to find in record form. Romanoff insists that they do not simply gift him the whole playlist and Banner suggests choosing a few from the late 40s or early 50s that Handler-Steve may not have heard.

That decided, the Avengers disband, each going their separate ways so as to not arouse suspicion from his handler when he comes back. For his part, the Asset does his best to act normal as he follows his handler back to his room, but the plans sit under his skin like an electrifying itch, something fluttery and excited settling in his chest as he scans his handler.

He’s never had a secret like this before. This, he knows he won’t get in trouble for and the days before his handler’s birthday suddenly seem unbearably long. With how affected he is, he’s a little worried that he might inadvertently reveal something to his handler, but thankfully Handler-Steve heads into his room shortly after coming back, closing his door properly for probably the first time since the Asset had arrived.

The closed door is a little strange, but the Asset tries not to worry about it too much, instead looking around the room and picturing where they will place the record player that Stark had ordered. It might fit better in his handler’s room, but if they wanted to have it out in the open then there is a spot between the bookshelf and the window that might work.

His eyes catch on said bookshelf and he finds himself approaching it, running one finger over the spines lining the shelf. He can vaguely remember the Avengers discussing his handler’s favourite books and he can’t help being curious about them. Banner had taken him to the library of few times, but he usually focuses on reading the non-fiction books, figuring the outing is a good opportunity to study and prepare for any upcoming missions.

He had mostly ignored the fiction sections. Reading about computer programs seems more important than flipping through a mystery or fantasy novel but… besides a few history textbooks, his handler’s bookshelves are mostly filled with fictional tales and he can still vaguely remember his handler inviting him to read the books on the shelf. He scans the shelves again and wonders if reading less practical books would be okay.

The title of one book in particular seems to tug at him and he pulls it out slowly, letting it lay flat in his hand as he looks over the title. _The Hobbit_ , it proclaims, and he rubs a thumb over the worn paper. His handler has obviously read this book many times, although he’d never seen him do so—

— _Steve sits with his head bent over the book, his knees drawn up and his shoulders hunched as he squints at the page. The light in the apartment is warm but dim, and he scoffs slightly as he watches Steve strain his eyes. His eyes are weak as it is, making reading a labour of love sometimes, but that is never enough to stop him, no matter how much of an effort reading becomes._

_Eventually Steve’s furled brow becomes too much and he can’t watch anymore. “Here,” he says finally, setting down the newspaper he hadn’t been reading and holding out his hand. “Let me read it.”_

_Steve looks up and scowls slightly. “I can do it,” he says. “It’s fine.”_

_He huffs. “Yeah I know,” he says, stepping forward to swipe the book up from Steve’s hand and settling down across from him. He shuffles a little to get comfortable and scans the open page. Steve rolls his eyes and sits back, crossing his arms, the faintest hint of a smile on his face._

_He starts at the top of the page. “’Where did you go to, if I may ask?’ said Thorin to Gandalf as they rode along. ‘To look ahead,’ said he.”_

_Steve settles back and relaxes, the golden light of the lamp casting gentle shadows on his face._

_“‘And what brought you back in the nick of time?’_

_Looking behind,’ said he.” —_

A warm feeling unfolds in his chest and it’s only a sound from his handler’s room that prompts him to return the book to the shelf. He’s not confident enough yet to try reading it now, but… obviously he _had_ in the past and… and it probably wouldn’t be such a big deal if he did so now.

oOo

The week until his handler’s birthday passes agonisingly slowly and the Asset catches multiple conspiratorial looks passing between the Avengers as they wait for the day to finally arrive. Normally, seeing such looks would make him fear for his handler’s authority and maybe prompt him to report the offending agents. He has no such urge now, especially since doing so would ruin the surprise, and they’re already too close to the fateful date to let that sort of thing happen.

Finally it’s the night before the Fourth and the Avengers all seem drawn to the common room, a slight undertone of excitement hanging in the air as they wait for tomorrow to come. It’s nice to see how much everyone seems to care about his handler and how much they want to make tomorrow special for him.

Of course, Handler-Steve manages to one-up them a little on that.

It starts when the Asset leaves the common room to head to bed. JARVIS informs him that his handler is already in his room preparing to sleep, so he isn’t surprised not to see him in the living room when he arrives. He _is_ surprised though, when he comes to find a new addition sitting on top of his dresser.

So far, his handler has actually left his dresser alone, not bothering to perform surprise inspections or even touch it most days, but now, a framed picture sits prominently on top, the simple black lines of the frame doing nothing but enhancing the image within. He glances over to his handler’s room and he finds the door mostly closed, nothing but a few inches of space keeping it open, and he turns back to his dresser, stepping forward to better examine the picture.

It’s of him, like with the pictures he’d seen in his handler’s notebook, except this one shows his metal arm, the segments gleaming dimly in the sun as he gazes out the common room window. His mouth opens soundlessly as he reaches up to grab the picture, pulling it closer to him and staring.

His eyes dart up to his handler’s room once more as the magnitude of what he has, becomes apparent. His handler had… his handler had _given_ him something. Something for him to _keep_ , something made especially for him and— judging from the fact that his handler had given it to him silently, almost anonymously— it’s unlikely that his handler expects anything in _return_. 

He sets the picture back down carefully and rubs his thumb against the glass, tracing the relaxed lines of his face in the image. His mind flashes back to the empty pages of his handler’s sketchbook and something in his shoulders relaxes as he realises that some of those pages must be full now.

Stark had said that Handler-Steve doesn’t have many hobbies, so it’s probably a good thing that he’s actively pursuing this one.

The next morning, his handler takes them up to the common room for breakfast and both Banner and Stark are already there when they arrive. They exchange a chorus of happy birthdays before his handler gets to work on preparing their morning meal and Banner moves to pour hot water into his mug.

“Thank you for the picture,” he says quietly, and his handler ducks his head, a faint smile on his lips.

Behind them, Stark sits up, looking far more awake than before. “You got one too?” he asks, his eyes darting back and forth between the two men. Banner nods and Stark breaks out into a smile. “Aw man, you should have seen how excited the bots were this morning,” he says, barely avoiding spilling his coffee as he gestures.

“Your robots saw it?” Banner questions and Stark nods.

“Yeah, it was just in the workshop–” He gets cut off as the elevator dings open and reveals both Barton and Romanoff, their hair damp after their morning workout.

“What was what?” Barton asks as he goes over to rummage through the pantry.

“Steve’s picture,” Stark informs him, studiously ignoring the growing blush on his handler’s face. “It was in the workshop, DUM-E and U are enamoured. I think I’ll have to hang it up in there.”

“Wait, did we all get one?” Barton turns around to look. “Mine was by my bow. Nat said she got one in her room.”

“That’s where mine was too,” Banner cuts in and Stark looks up to Handler-Steve.

“That just leaves Sam,” he says.

Throughout the whole conversation, Handler-Steve had been determinedly making oatmeal, a pleased blush steadily growing on his face. “I put it in his gym locker,” he mumbles moving over to ladle the oatmeal into two bowls.

Stark whoops and Barton looks up at the ceiling. “JARVIS where’s Wilson?”

“Sam is still asleep,” JARVIS replies (and the Asset _swears_ the AI is still slightly miffed that Wilson had requested to be addressed without his title.)

“Well, wake him up,” Stark insists, pushing away from the table. “Tell him to get moving, we’ve got some art to appreciate.”

“Tony—” his handler tries, only to be cut off by JARVIS’ dry ‘Very well.’

“Ooh!” Barton sets down a mug he’d managed to acquire and looks over at Stark. “You should see mine, it looks so cool–” By the end of his sentence he’s already half-way to the elevator and he throws a glance over his shoulder. “Nat do you want me to get yours too?”

Romanoff’s mouth twitches upwards as she nods her ascent and Stark lurches up to follow Barton into the elevator, an argument already half-formed as to who should get dropped off first.

Banner chuckles and gets up, setting his tea aside. “I guess it’s show-and-tell,” he muses. “I think I’ll take the stairs though.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” his handler says earnestly as he comes over with the bowls, his blush fading slightly now that Stark and Barton have left.

Banner shakes his head and smiles easily. “I don’t mind,” he says, getting up to head towards the stairway. “It’s really very good.”

His handler’s head ducks again, a pleased smile on his lips as he hands off one of the bowls and the Asset feels his own mouth twitch upwards slightly as he grabs a spoon. His handler had obviously scattered the team’s pictures around in places they would find and be able to personally admire. He might have thought he could get away with it quietly, but obviously the team isn’t having that.

Barton, Banner, and Stark arrive back soon enough, and they’ve only just made it to the main counter when the elevator dings open again and emits a slightly groggy Wilson, a framed picture clutched to his chest.

“JARVIS woke me and gave me a cryptic message about working out,” he says as he joins the rest of them at the counter and gently sets his picture down. “I assume this is what he was talking about?”

He gives his handler a warm smile and the Asset lets his gaze drift over the images laid out. His handler really had done a great job with all of them and it’s obvious that he’d taken a lot of time to get the separate pieces just right. In every scene the subject is relaxed — Wilson concentrating while cooking, Stark with his bots, Barton in the park, Romanoff painting her nails and Banner reading — they’re all peaceful optimistic pieces and the Asset can see why everyone is so taken with them.

He has a sudden overwhelming urge to get up and go get _his_ picture. To bring it in and show them how his handler had drawn _him_ as well, to share with them the joy that it had brought and to show his handler how much he appreciates it.

He stays in his seat and grinds his teeth in frustration because he’s pretty sure nothing bad would happen if he were to get up and go to his room. He’s pretty sure that nobody would get mad, or even blink twice if he did that, in fact, they might even approve, but he still can’t get up.

He can’t do it.

“Did Steve make you one too?” He blinks and looks over to were Dr Banner is smiling gently at him, tea once again in hand.

He swallows and nods, ducking slightly behind his hair. “-t’s good,” he manages to mumble, and his handler’s smile almost makes up for everything else.

oOo

The rest of the day stays relatively calm (although the Asset can’t help feeling like he’s about to burst waiting for the hour of the party. He’s supposed to be good at waiting, but _this_ is a whole new experience.) Finally, around dinnertime, Stark gathers everyone together in the living room for food and presents. A civilian named Pepper joins them as well, and her unexpected presence is a little off-putting, but Stark seems to trust her, and JARVIS obviously had deemed her to be non-threatening, so he lets it go. 

“I got Chinese,” Stark tells them as they begin dishing up. “I thought about fancy catering, but, you know, everyone needs the full fake-Chinese-food experience.”

His handler smiles at that and proceeds to hand the Asset an empty plate. “With this style of buffet, you go along and pick what you like,” he says as the Asset stares at him. “I’ve never had any of this either, so your judgement is as good as mine.”

With that his handler leaves him to pick out his own food.

He stares down at the many dishes and watches as his handler samples various items out of several of them, his mind still reeling. So far in his stay here in the tower— actually, so far _ever_ , besides the one time cooking with Sam— he’s never had a choice in his own food. His handlers always feed him, and while Handler-Steve may feed him _better_ than his other handlers, he still always feeds him.

But, apparently not today. The Asset blinks and breathes in, taking in the smells of the food around him. Maybe it won’t be so bad, picking his food for himself. There are so many options available, his handler wouldn’t _possibly_ be able to pick everything he might want, and of course he’d never dream of _asking_ for it if his handler didn’t offer it first so…

So now at least he can make sure that everything on his plate is something _he_ wants. He moves forward and begins examining the spread. Stark seems to have been right when he’d called it fake-Chinese-food, he’s pretty sure he’s had a few missions in China, but he doesn’t recognise most of what’s on the table. (Not that he’d actually _eaten_ Chinese food, but he’d seen it.)

He decides to first grab one of the plastic bowls of soup. He’s still easing into solid food, so it’s probably a good idea to eat some liquids, outside of that though… he grabs a little bit of everything. A few pieces of some sort of meat covered in sauce, rice, some noodles, a different type of noodles, a green vegetable— _broccoli_ his brain supplies— bread balls of some sort, something fried… There are so many options that he thoroughly fills his plate.

He knows he’ll be able to eat it all thanks to his serum, but it still feels weird choosing all this food for himself. Nobody _else_ seems to find it weird though, so he tries not to worry about it too much. After getting food, everyone congregates by the couches and sits down while Barton introduces the game of the night.

“It’s called _Telestrations_ ,” he explains, placing a blue and white box on the coffee table in the middle of the couches. “Basically, it’s Pictionary combined with Telephone,” he says as he opens is and pulls out a box of cards, several coil-bound notebooks, cloths and markers and a timer. Neither of the games Barton mentions rings any bells, but thankfully the archer continues to explain.

“So, what you do,” he starts as he grabs one of the notebooks (they seem to be made out of plastic instead of paper, which is a little odd.) “You grab a card and choose a word on it.” He demonstrates. “And then write the word down on the “Secret word” space at the front,” he shows them the blank line at the front of the booklet.

“Does it matter what word?” Stark asks around a mouthful of rice. “There’s a lot of words on that card.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Barton assures. “Just pick whatever you think you can draw. You’ll soon find you were wrong anyway.” He flips the page with the ‘secret word’ over to a blank one. “So next step is to draw your word within the time given,” he says. “Then,” he flips the page to one marked ‘Guess’. “You pass the notebook to the left, and _they_ try to guess what you drew.”

He flips to the next page to show a new blank page. “Then, _they_ pass it and the next person has to draw what was guessed.” He grins at them. “At the end of the round, you get to see how badly your word got transformed.”

He grabs one of the cloths and begins wiping off his notebook. “If you have no idea what they drew, just describe literally everything you see, even if it’s ‘six lines and a triangle. Also, no words on your drawings,” he explains as he stands up and begins passing out the rest of the notebooks. “This game is good because there’s enough for everyone here,” he says as he holds one out to the Asset.

He takes it instinctively, his mind a little numb with shock as he realises he’s about to be included in the festivities. He hadn’t been expecting that, he actually would have been less surprised if they had skipped over him all together, but then again… the Avengers are a strange bunch.

Nobody _else_ seems surprised that he’s included, so he accepts a marker and a card, silently hoping that he won’t mess the game up for everyone. He’s never had to play a game like this on any of his missions, so he’s not quite sure what to expect.

“Alright, everyone write down your word, and then we’ll get started,” Barton tells them and the Asset quickly scans his card, searching for something he recognises and can conceivably draw. Most of the words mean nothing to him but he does see one that reads ‘shampoo’, so he writes that one down.

“Alright, ready?” Barton asks as everyone flips over to the drawing page. Barton flips over the timer. “Go!”

Instantly he realises that drawing with a marker is a _lot_ harder than it seems. The tip of the pen is fatter than he’s used to, and it runs along the plastic smoother than he’s expecting, making his picture turn out sloppier than he plans. He doesn’t seem to be the only one having troubles though, judging from the grumbles around him, so he decides it isn’t a big deal, focusing harder on just finishing his picture in time.

He draws a bottle first before realising that further context is probably needed. He adds a rudimentary tub and showerhead. His pen slips as he adds a stick figure and jets of water, but he doesn’t have time to fix anything because Barton is busy counting down the time. At the last second, he adds an arrow pointing towards the bottle before finally flipping the page and handing it over to Banner on his left.

Wilson is on his right and he picks up the notebook left for him, flipping back to try to make out the picture left behind. His brow furls and he brings it in closer, as though that will help make out the scribbles in front of him.

“Steve, your art skills are just not fair for this game,” Romanoff mumbles from her position on Handler-Steve’s left.

“Barton makes up for him,” Wilson reports, his eyes narrowed as he tries to make out whatever Barton had handed him.

Barton chuckles and shakes his head, flipping over the page in his notebook and passing it along. “When you’re done, I’ll set the timer,” he says.

The Asset looks back down at his picture, his stomach clenching as he tries to figure out what it is. It’s some sort of vehicle, that much he can see, and judging from its lack of windows, it’s some sort of van. His eyes pick up on the ‘plus’ symbol on its side and he realises suddenly that it must be some sort of emergency vehicle.

 _Ambulance_ , he thinks, before flipping over to the guessing page and trying to remember how to spell the word. He gets it eventually and hands off his notebook to Banner.

“Alright,” Barton reaches for the timer. “So, flip back to read the guess and draw _that._ ”

The timer flips and silence falls as everyone works on deciphering and sketching out their next word. _Surfboarding,_ his word reads, and he stares at it, trying to guess what it could mean.

“Banner, you’re handwriting _sucks_ ,” Stark speaks up abruptly, scowling down at his own book. Banner smiles and shakes his head, his pen already gliding smoothly along his page.

“I _was_ a doctor,” he reminds them, amusement colouring his voice.

The Asset shakes his head and turns back to his own word. _Surfboard… surf… surf… surfing?_ He blinks and sits up. He knows that word. He can’t begin to guess where he _got_ it from, but he knows it involves boards and water, so that’s good enough. He spends the rest of the time trying to hash out the best surfboard scene he can, before handing off his notebook again.

The game continues like that until their notebooks have gone all the way around the circle and everyone has their original book again. “Okay,” Barton holds his book up. “Now we flip through our books and share our words.” He flips his open to reveal the secret word. “Mine was ‘Spaghetti’.”

Beside him Wilson sits up and scoffs. “No, it wasn’t man,” he says disbelievingly. “Show them what I had to guess from.”

Barton complies with a grin and flips the page to reveal three vaguely wavy lines floating over a half-circle, accompanied by three dots. “So, I can’t draw,” he says, a grin on his face, as Wilson loudly explains that he’d assumed the wavy lines were water.

Barton flips through the rest of his book (the last guess had been desert island) and Wilson begins going through his. His original word _had_ been ambulance, and the Asset feels slightly proud that he’d been able to guess it, considering how he hadn’t even been sure how to spell it.

Next, it’s his turn and he feels suddenly tense as all eyes turn to him and he flips open his book. “Shampoo,” he says simply, showing his picture.

“Oh no,” Pepper says suddenly, a hand coming up to her mouth as her eyes widen and she glances towards Handler-Steve, a faint blush on her cheeks. “I know what that one is.” Stark gives her a curious glance and the Asset eyes her for a second before flipping to Banner’s guess. He’d gotten it right at least, although his handwriting is rather unintelligible.

“I’ll have you know, I figured it out,” Stark says proudly as the Asset flips over to reveals Stark’s picture. It’s rather similar to his own, except for the numbers ‘1’ and ‘2’ over the bottles, an arrow pointing to the number one.

“Okay,” Pepper speaks up before he can flip the page, the colour in her cheeks deepening. “Just so you know, I didn’t know the numbers were related to the _bottles._ ”

The Asset blinks at her and flips the page to see her guess. ‘ _Peeing in the shower,_ ’ it reads, and the room burst out laughing. Pepper groans and covers her face as Stark throws an arm around her shoulder, a wide smile on his face.

“All I could think of was _going number one_ ,” she mumbles, into her hands. “I had to give that to Steve,” 

“Yeah, well I had to _draw it_ ,” Handler-Steve cuts in, his face bright with laughter. “Needless to say, I kept that one a stick figure.”

Next to him, Romanoff snorts and mutters something about ‘never in her wildest dreams’. The Asset ducks his head as he fights against a smile and flips through the remainder of his booklet, his word morphing into thunderstorm by the end of it. The rest of the Avengers share their own books, each one of their words going off the rails somewhere along the lines. The highlight of the night though, has to be when Barton’s terrible drawing manages to turn the word ‘corset’ into ‘three-armed pregnant lady’.

“I didn’t know the extra lines were _strings,_ ” Wilson exclaims as the group dissolves into laughter. “I just saw a stick figure with weird bumps and three arms, what _else_ was it supposed to be?”

“Wow,” Stark wipes his eyes with one hand. “If the fate of the world rested on Barton’s drawing skills, we’d all _die._ ”

Barton huffs and grins good naturedly before the game eventually wraps up and Stark stands up to deliver Steve his presents. It’s late into the evening by now, and JARVIS blacks-out the windows as night falls, giving the room a more intimate feel as Stark wheels in a large box on a trolly with two smaller boxes on top of it.

“Oh, Tony,” his handler starts as he catches sight of the large gift. “You didn’t have to—”

“Ah! Shh,” Stark insists, holding up his hand and waving it dismissively. “It’s your birthday, I can get you what I want, also, this was Barnes’ idea so, no take backs.” His handler’s eyes widen as he glances towards him and the Asset feels a small sense of satisfaction as he closes his mouth and makes no further protest as Stark wheels the presents closer to him.

“We all helped pick them out, of course,” Stark explains as Handler-Steve pulls the smallest box towards himself. “But Barnes is the one who gave us the idea.” He looks up and catches the Asset’s eye for a second and gives him the very faintest flash of a smile before focusing back on Handler-Steve.

The first box is a blue coffee mug with a cartoon rainbow cat on it. Barton spends a good several minutes explaining the context to the cat (apparently it’s a popular cultural reference) before his handler reaches for the next present. 

He breaks through the tape of the next small box and the Asset feels a sudden rush of nerves as he opens it, worried beyond belief that his handler might not like his present. Stark had made it very clear that the whole thing had been his idea, so if anything goes wrong then his handler will know who to blame—

His handler’s face goes slack as he pulls open the flaps of the box, and the rest of the team leans forward in their seats as he begins to reverently flip through the collections of records he’d been given.

“We chose a few you probably don’t know too,” Stark rambles on as his handler admires the gift. “Also, did you know that bands still make records today? You can find almost any song you want…”

His handler eventually moves on to open the big box and a smile breaks out on his face as he sees the record player. “Thank you,” he breathes, his hands ghosting over the buttons. His head darts up, and he smiles at each of the Avengers in turn, and this time, when he gets to him, the Asset can’t help smiling back, his chest swelling with pride over his handler’s reaction to the gift.

His handler’s smile only widens.

oOo

After his handler’s birthday, they move the record player into his rooms, nestling it into the corner the Asset had already spied between the bookshelf and the window. Now, at night, when he’s busy writing down his malfunction/memories or dreams, he gets to lean back against the wood of the record player and think about how his malfunction/memory had help get it there.

His training continues with the Avengers and he falls into a pattern of activity. If hardly feels strange anymore to be occupied all the time, and he can hardly remember what it felt like to stand without orders and stare blankly at nothing. With the Avengers, there’s always something going on.

One morning, a few weeks after his handler’s birthday, the Avengers congregate in the common room for lunch, Wilson and Banner doing the honours, when JARVIS interrupts them.

“Incoming call Sir,” he says. “It seems to be urgent.”

The team’s lighthearted chatter ceases and Stark sits up straight from his spot by the counter. “Put it through JARVIS,” he says, his brow furling slightly with worry.

The muffled noise of wind on a speaker fills the room for a second before an unfamiliar voice speaks up. “ _Umm, hi. I’m Darcy,”_ the voice says. _“You probably don’t know me, but I work with Jane.”_ There’s a muted sound of a man speaking in the background and Darcy’s voice fades for a second as she responds before coming back to the phone. _“Anyway,_ she _works with Thor and, well, I think they need your help.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have now moved on to new content! I hope you enjoy. Have you figured out what’s happening next?  
> Also, I loved Steve’s birthday. I’ll have you know that every Telestration scene is a true incident from my family’s own games. (We had to give the ‘peeing in the shower’ one to my grandma and ‘three-armed pregnant lady’ was my guess because my Aunt CANNOT draw. XD)  
> But anyway, Bucky made a lot of progress in this chapter, and they got to admire Steve’s art!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the Avengers face off against the Dark Elves, and the Asset against something else

The Avengers fall instantly into mission-mode.

“What’s the situation Darcy?” His handler asks, his face settling into a mask of familiar determination as all thoughts of lunch fly out the window.

The woman on the phone, Darcy, takes a deep breath and lets it out. _“Okay, so, I don’t understand_ exactly _what’s all going on, but like, yesterday, Jane and I were in London investigating this science thing and she got infected by something alien I guess,”_ she cuts herself off to have another muted conversation with someone and the Avengers all share a glance as the Asset wonders at the kinds of missions they receive. Everything about it is completely outside of anything he’s ever encountered before.

 _“Anyway,”_ Darcy comes back on. “ _Thor came down and zapped her back to Asgard for forever and— oh right, I don’t know if you’ve noticed anything strange going on lately, but apparently all the realms of the universe are converging like,_ today, _and that’s making for some weird gravity stuff and the lines between worlds are blurred I guess—”_

As she speaks Stark pulls out his phone and begins searching something on it with his brows furled. Barton and Romanoff raise their eyebrows at each other, and Wilson folds his arms, seemingly unable to decide between looking amused and concerned.

 _“So anyway,”_ Darcy continues _. “Jane got infected by the alien power stone called the Aether or something and these people called the Dark Elves_ really _want it and they tried to attack Asgard to get it—”_ Her voice becomes less audible as she turns away to address someone else. _“I’m_ getting _them,”_ they hear her say. _“It’s just a lot of stuff to explain all at once,_ you _keep putting up these gravimetric spike things.”_

“You guys, go get suited up,” Handler-Steve says quietly. “JARVIS, can you play Darcy’s phone call throughout the base so everyone can hear it as they get ready?”

The team gets up instantly, moving efficiently towards the elevator and the Asset watches as a tremor seems to run through his handler, before he glances in his direction and looks away. On his way past, Stark pats his handler’s shoulder briefly. “You can stay here and use JARVIS to direct us,” he says, and his handler nods silently, his lips pursing.

The Asset stays silent, thinking over the strange interaction as the Avengers leave and his handler asks JARVIS to try to trace Darcy’s call.

 _“So,”_ Darcy comes back on as JARVIS projects a map of somewhere called Greenwich. “ _Thor’s dad Odin wanted to keep Jane and wait for the Dark Elves to show up again, but Thor’s mom was like ‘No,’ and she snuck Thor and Jane, and someone named Sif off to the Elves home world.”_

The Asset grinds his teeth as he listens in on the conversation. He’s sure all the information is important, and the Avengers need time to suit up anyways, but part of him wishes the debriefing was a little more efficient.

 _“The elves pulled the Aether out of Jane,”_ Darcy continues. “ _But Thor couldn’t destroy it and apparently the main elf, Malekith or something, took the Aether for himself and he’s now on his way_ here.” The Asset tenses at the same time as his handler at her words and he finds himself glancing towards the windows as if he will be able to somehow spot the potential invasion landing outside.

“ _Apparently they want to use the Convergence and the Aether to destroy the whole universe from Earth,”_ Darcy explains. “ _But thankfully Jane and Thor found a portal from the Elf world to here (coz the lines are blurred and everything) and so they came to warn us and Jane and Dr Selvig have a plan against the Elves, but_ I _thought we should probably call you guys in, coz, you know, you have experience with this sort of thing—”_

“Do you know when the invasion is coming?” his handler cuts in. “It looks like you’re in Greenwich right now,” he says looking over at the map. “Even with our quinjets and Tony’s suit it will still take us a few hours to get to where you are.”

“ _The Convergence is coming like, any minute now,”_ Darcy says, and the Asset feels his eyes widen as across from him, his handler’s frame grows tense. “ _But it’s okay!”_ Darcy reassures. “ _Jane and Selvig have these gravimetric sensor spike things so they can control the weird anomalies the Convergence is doing, so as long as you guys can replicate the signal, we can make a portal in New York to send you guys here.”_

His handler’s face goes slack for a second before he shakes his head, his eyes hardening determinedly. “Send the signal,” he says authoritatively. “Tony, can you replicate it?”

 _“Give me a few minutes Cap, and we’ll be going through portals in no time,”_ Stark replies over JARVIS’ speakers and his handler nods again.

“JARVIS can you get me news coverage of Greenwich please?” he asks, and several more holographic screens pop up around him. The Asset watches in quiet awe as his handler manipulates the screens in front of him, his brow furled in a familiar expression of concentration. Three minutes later and Stark informs the team that they can meet him up on the roof because ‘the portal signal is up and running’.

“ _Is this thing even safe?”_ he hears Wilson question as the team clusters up on the roof. “ _Like, we know for sure this is going to work?”_

“ _It worked with Jane apparently,”_ Stark replies tightly. “ _And if we want to get there in time, this is the only way.”_ He takes in an audible breath and across from him, the Asset can see his handler’s shoulders stiffen. “ _See you on the other side, Cap,”_ Stark radios before presumably stepping through the portal.

They sit for several seconds in tense silence before something crackles over the comms.

 _“Whaddya know?”_ Stark says, and his handler relaxes slightly. _“It really works, say, how ‘bout getting this going for everyday life?”_

 _“It will only work during the Convergence,”_ Darcy cuts in. “ _And the peak is only going to last about 10 minutes but—”_

She gets cut off as, on one of the new screens, the Asset sees a _hulking_ ship shaped like a ‘T’ materialises and begin to plow its way through the earth to center itself under some newly forming discs in the sky. He squints at the discs a little. It’s hard to tell, thanks to the shaky camera work, but the discs look _very much_ like portals to other worlds.

 _That must be the Convergence_ , he thinks as he listens to the Avengers radio their positions and start coordinating their attack.

“Someone find Thor and give him an earpiece,” his handler orders, leaning over the various screens in front of him. “Tony, can you link your suit up to my screens and give me a visual?” Both Stark and Romanoff reply affirmatively, and soon Thor is on the line with everyone else and his handler is watching the fight through the eyes of Stark’s suit.

“Thor, which one’s Malekith?” his handler asks as alien looking creatures begin to descend from the landed ship. They wear blank white masks, making their eyes seem like empty voids and the Asset shivers, leaning forward as he looks over his handler’s screens.

“ _He’s the one with the half-burned face,”_ a new voice replies darkly. “ _I injured him when he attempted to kill my mother.”_ The Asset spots the Elf in question and watches through Stark’s visual feed as a man with a red cape steps up to confront him and the rest of the Avengers work on engaging the other Elves and herding civilians.

 _“Anyone who isn’t getting away from the windows is getting shot!”_ Barton snaps after several unsuccessful attempts to get people to take cover instead of gawk at the fight going on outside. 

_“So, do we have a_ plan _for this stone, power thing?”_ Stark asks, slightly out of breath as he blasts another elf, and Hulk roars in the background. “ _Also, if I suddenly fall into another portal and show up on some random street_ one more time, _I’m going to lose it.”_

The Asset blinks and watches on screen as aliens and allies alike fight each other while getting sucked apart and dropping into unpredictable and _invisible_ portals. He flicks his eyes up to the screen showing the converging worlds and finds himself a little glad that he wasn’t chosen for this mission, he cannot imagine what that would have been like. 

“ _We just have to keep Malekith distracted until the end of the Convergence,”_ Darcy tells them. “ _Jane says about seven minutes.”_

 _“Okay, but what about_ after _?”_ Romanoff cuts in, the sounds of her widow-bites going off. “ _How do we get the Aether out of him?”_

“Can we destroy it?” his handler speaks up, flipping through his screens as he watches the battle. “We don’t want Malekith using that on Earth for any longer than necessary—

“ _We can’t destroy it,”_ a new voice interrupts suddenly. _“Sorry,”_ she says. “ _Jane here, and Odin said they don’t have the power to destroy the Aether. They just hid it away until I found it by accident.”_

 _“What?!”_ Wilson cuts in, indignant. “ _You’re telling me we don’t have a plan to actually_ stop _this thing?”_

“ _We can send him away from Earth if we stick him with one of Selvig’s gravimetric sensors,”_ Jane says in a rush. “ _We can make a portal and send him away for now.”_

“We still need some way to contain the Aether,” the Asset hears his handler mutter as he taps his fingers on the counter in front of him. “Or else he’ll just come back or attack someone else…” His brow furls in thought for a moment before inspiration dawns and he sits up slightly. _“_ Go ahead with Jane’s plan for now,” he tells the team before looking towards the ceiling. “JARVIS, can you get Fury or Maria Hill on the line?”

The Asset is distracted away from his handler’s phone call as, on Stark’s screen, the man in the red cape arms himself with several long metal spikes and charges towards the dark red cloud that is apparently Malekith. The bloody mist envelops the two and the Asset can only watch with bated breath as they wait for Jane to zap Malekith away.

“ _Almost there…”_ They hear her mutter to herself before given a shout of triumph. On screen the red cloud abruptly disperses and Stark pauses his fight to watch as Malekith flies backwards and is sucked into a portal along with part of his ship.

“Okay,” his handler speaks up suddenly and the Asset turns back to him, realising he’d completely missed his handler’s phone call. “So Fury said he can get a hold of the case they used to contain the Tesseract,” his handler explains. “So if we need to, we can contain the Aether—” His words get cut off as, on screen, the giant alien spaceship starts to collapse, its structure compromised now that part of it had been portalled away.

 _“Thor!”_ They hear Jane scream as the Asset notices the caped man lying motionless on the ground in front of the crumbling spaceship.

“Tony—” His handler starts, his face tightening as Stark’s video feed tilts and the man flies towards his prone teammate.

“ _Come on big guy.”_ They hear him say as he tries to lift the unconscious man.

“Tony.” His handler’s voice is urgent, his shoulders stiffening with anxiety as he watches the scene, his eyes darting between Stark and the collapsing ship. “Tony, get out of there.” He leans forward, his hands clenched on the edge of the countertop, his entire frame practically vibrating as he watches over the screens. The Asset stares at him and the barely hidden fear in his eyes, and he’s suddenly overcome by the realisation that his handler desperately _desperately_ wants to over there, fighting with his teammates.

But he isn’t. He’s here instead. And for some reason he hadn’t even _tried_ to go with the rest of the team. 

“ _Tony,”_ his handler snaps, his knuckles whitening on the countertop and his jaw clenching as Stark continues to struggle, a piece of debris breaking off and hitting the ground a few feet from him.

On screen, Stark finally manages to drag Thor out of the way of the falling ship and the Asset finds himself breathing out a sigh of relief as his handler’s shoulders slump. The spaceship lets out a groan as it continues to crumble, and they watch as pieces fall off, the base seemingly sinking into the ground.

“ _Oh, this is going to_ suck _to clean up.”_ The Asset hears Barton groan as the ship tips over.

A second later, and the ship is suddenly gone, vanishing before it even has a chance to hit the ground, the expected impact never arriving. The Avengers sit in stunned silence for a moment before Wilson lets out a whoop and Stark says something about science and portals and the utter unfairness of how short the Convergence is.

Across from him, his handler relaxes fully and lets out a slow breath, his hands finally letting up on their grip on the counter. The Asset flicks his eyes over him as his handler moves on to coordinating clean up and rendezvous, and he swallows, looking away.

oOo

His handler continues to organise things after the battle, arranging for a quinjet to fly out to the Avengers, and tracking down SHIELD’s containment case for Thor to use. The Avengers themselves stick around in Greenwich for a while to help with the clean up, and Thor excuses himself briefly to go back to Asgard in order to hunt the Aether down, check on his friend Sif, and calm any ruffled feathers.

“ _Make sure you come back soon! I’ve got a place set up at my tower.”_ The Asset hears Stark insist as Thor prepares to leave. “ _We also still have that staff thing and, I think we deserve a little celebration after all of this.”_

Celebrate they do, after everyone returns to the tower. The common room is fuller than ever before with the usual Avengers, plus Thor, Jane, Darcy and someone named Ian. The Asset tries to keep to the edges of the room as everyone miles around. He knows that everyone in the tower is an ally and that he shouldn’t be worried, but he can’t help the tight feeling that settles in his chest as he scans the room.

Avenger allies or not, new people mean people he hasn’t figured out how to read yet, and he doesn’t want to mess anything up or make anyone mad by accident. Thankfully, this isn’t the first Avengers party he’s been to, so he’s at least prepared for the casual cycle of food and chatting as everyone catches up with each other.

“Loki has yet to re-surface with the Tesseract,” Thor informs them as he sets a giant hammer down on the coffee table and settles on the couch. “For now, my time is mostly spent restoring peace to the nine realms.”

The Avengers fill Thor in with everything that has changed back on Earth, and Thor entertains them with stories of his exploits as the night deepens and the group clusters around the ring of couches. The Asset hangs back slightly, close enough to listen but not willing to put himself in the middle of the group.

“So is there anything the hammer _can’t_ do?” the man next to Darcy – Ian – asks as he takes a sip from his beer bottle. “It was flying around like crazy during the battle.”

“When I first saw it,” Darcy speaks up before Thor. “It was in a giant crater in New Mexico, and no one could lift it.”

“Right!” Stark sits up sudden, intrigued. “I read about that. What’s with that?”

Thor smiles and lounges back, gesturing lazily. “Only those who are worthy can wield the power of Thor,” he says and beside him, Barton snorts.

“No way man,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “It’s got to be a trick.”

Thor sweeps his hand out. “Be my guest,” he says with a teasing smile before reaching down to grab his glass.

It’s immediately obvious to the Asset that the Avengers are a competitive group of people. Barton accepts right away, only to fail just as quickly, and the Asset blinks as the hammer refuses to budge. Stark bites next, standing up with a flare and rubbing his hands together as the rest of the Avengers heckle him.

“So.” He loops his wrist through the strap on the handle and looks up at Thor. “If I lift this, I then rule Asgard?”

“Yes, of course,” Thor replies deadpanned.

Stark smirks and tugs on the hammer, lifting his leg onto the coffee table to get more leverage. After a second of fruitless effort his brow furls and he steps away, his eyes calculating. “I’ll be right back,” he says determinedly.

He returns a few minutes later with his Iron Man gauntlet, and when _that_ doesn’t work, the competition really starts going. Bruce, Wilson, Darcy and Ian all fail and by the time Romanoff refuses her turn, the Asset is beginning to actually wonder if there really is something to the ‘magic’ of the hammer.

“Alright Steve, you go,” Stark challenges as he takes a sip of his drink, and his handler throws Stark a smirk before standing up and stepping up to the hammer.

The Asset swallows and watches intently as his handler rolls up his sleeves and grabs hold of the handle, preparing to pull. He tugs and there’s a creak, and for half-a-second, the Asset _swears_ the hammer moves slightly. He darts his eyes around the group to see if anyone else had noticed, his handler continuing to pull for a few seconds before stepping away with his hands raised.

Thor lets out a seemingly relieved breath before shifting and sitting up, glancing up. “And what about you, my friend?” he asks, motioning with his glass towards the Asset. “Are you up for the task?”

The Asset feels himself still as all eyes turn to him. His breath stutters in his chest and he darts his eyes over to the hammer, trying to figure out the best response. He’s spent enough time with the Avengers by now to know that they probably won’t get angry should he accept Thor’s offer, but since none of them had been able to lift the hammer he doesn’t want to risk out-performing anyone. He doubts he’d actually be able to lift the thing, but he’d rather not chance it. He feels a little cautious about refusing too, but Romanoff had done it, so he can only hope that it isn’t a problem when he does it too.

He shakes his head at Thor and the man flashes him a gentle smile before turning to Jane and offering her a turn. She fails along with everyone else, but seems hardly upset at all, instead mentioning something about a scientific theory, which inevitably draws Stark back into the conversation, the two scientists leaving everyone else behind as they exchange ideas.

The group disperses a little after that, mostly standing around in groups of two or threes as they chat and graze the provided refreshments, and the Asset tries to keep his back to a wall as he continues to survey the situation.

He narrows his eyes slightly and tries not to tense when Darcy peels herself away from Ian and begins to make her way over to him, a green can of pop in her hand. “You’re Bucky, right?” she asks as she plants herself in front of him, her eyes bright. “Bucky Barnes?”

He freezes mid-nod and stares at her, suddenly not sure how to respond. He’s gotten used to the name Bucky after his time here in the tower, to the point where responding to it seems instinctual, and while JARVIS calls him Sergeant Barnes… he’s never actually heard the two names _together_ before.

_Bucky… Barnes._

He finally nods his head, figuring the answer is safe enough and making a mental note to examine the name again when he has some time to himself. Across from him, Darcy lights up and she smiles, sticking her hand out. “That’s so cool!” She exclaims inexplicably. “I can’t believe I get to actually meet you.”

The Asset returns her handshake instinctively but can’t help staring at her as he does so, completely at a loss as to why she would even _know_ about him, let alone want to meet him. His missions as the Asset were supposed to be top secret, he was supposed to be a ghost story, no one was supposed to know about him—

“Cool arm by the way,” Darcy informs him with a smile, leaving him blinking as she turns to go back to her friend.

He swallows and rubs his hand against his leg, Darcy’s handshake seeming to linger along with her confusing words. He flicks his eyes around the room and does a head count, glancing over the entrances and exits before automatically scanning everyone for weapons. Romanoff has a few on her and Barton definitely has something in his sock and Thor has his hammer, which, if he is to be believed, only responds to him, which makes it even more of a threat—

He’s distracted away from his threat-assessment when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Wilson approach his handler and whisper something into his ear. Surprise flashes over Handler-Steve’s face for a second before it smooths over into understanding and he glances over towards the Asset. He looks back at Wilson and gives him a nod, patting him on the shoulder before stepping away.

The Asset feels his stomach clench with nerves as he watches his handler’s progress across the room and realises that he’s making his way over to _him._ His tongue presses into the roof of his mouth and he darts his eyes around again as he tries to remember if he’d done anything that might have upset his handler. He doesn’t think—

“Hey.” His handler stops in front of him, his eyes gentle. “It’s getting kind of busy in here,” he says evenly. “Did you want to head back to our room? ‘Coz that would be fine.”

The Asset stares at him frozen for a second before blinking twice and scanning the room behind him again. His eyes catch on Wilson and he realises that the man must have picked up on his discomfort somehow and had then reported it to his handler and his handler…

And his handler is… offering him a way out of the situation. The concept is startling because he’s pretty sure if Hydra had discovered any kind of weakness like this, they would have _thoroughly_ discouraged it, rather than accommodate it. Of course, his handler _isn’t_ Hydra so… so maybe this shouldn’t be that surprising.

He slowly nods his head and his handler gives him a consenting smile. “Alright,” he says easily, shrugging one shoulder. The Asset stares at him a second longer before quietly turning away. The back of his neck crawls as he walks towards the elevator and a wave of relief washes over him as he enters and the doors close. 

He makes up his bed on the couch once he gets back to the room, but he finds he isn’t ready to fall asleep yet. Instead he lays down and stares at the ceiling, turning over the events of the party in his brain. He can’t stop thinking about Darcy and what she’d called him.

It makes sense now that he thinks of it, and a part of him feels ridiculous that he hadn’t put the pieces together before this, but if his handler calls him Bucky, and JARVIS calls him Sergeant Barnes, then of _course_ his full title would be Bucky Barnes. That doesn’t explain how Darcy had known that name or why she would have wanted to meet him though—

— _“I’m Bucky Barnes,” he says to the small boy, his grin showing off the gap in his teeth from where he’d lost a tooth. “You okay?”_

_The boy wipes a streak of dirt off his cheek, his breath wheezing slightly in his chest as he stands up straight. “You didn’ hafta do that,” he says, his eyebrows ticking down slightly and his shoulders hunching defensively._

_He scans the boy for a second before glancing over to where Billy Thomp--- had run off with his tail between his legs. He shrugs and shuffles his feet a little. “I know,” he says. “But Billy’s kind’ov a bully.”_

_The boy flicks his eyes over him for a moment before he relaxes slightly, tugging on his shirt to straighten it out. “Yeah,” he agrees before looking down and kicking a little at the rocks on the ground. “Thanks, I guess.” He looks up. “I’m Steve. Steve Rogers.”—_

His eyes are wet and he breathes in shakily as he comes out of that memory/malfunction, trying to make sense of it. The ones with him and his handler together like that are the most confusing. He gets up to write it down, but he doesn’t know exactly what it _means._ In that one, his handler had been small, and _he’d_ been small too. He has a lot of memory/malfunctions like that, with him being small, or smaller, with short hair and two arms and people who are not his handler and he doesn’t know _why._

The memory/malfunctions after his handler gets big make more sense, they feel more like regular missions, even if they’re still a little strange, but the ones where he’s small…

He presses his lips together in frustration as he flips open his journal to record the scene and he can’t help noticing how it had seemed like he’d been introducing himself to his handler— but he doesn’t know _why_ he would need to do that or _why_ there hadn’t been another handler or agent or _someone_ around to teach his handler his various protocols like they’d done this time.

His hand shakes slightly as he writes, and he swallows, breathing in slowly. He thinks he has the answer, somewhere in his brain, he can almost feel it, waiting for him to clue in and ask the right questions. But, at the same time, it almost feels _too_ big, and he’s not quite sure he’s ready to figure it out just yet.

He shakes his head and closes his journal, standing up to put it back in his dresser. Whatever the reason, he isn’t ready to confront it just yet. Instead he distracts himself with a concern from earlier, namely, his handler’s stressful response to guiding the team from afar.

The puzzle is safe enough and he relaxes back down onto the couch as he re-analyses his handler’s strange behavior. By now, he knows that his handler is the leader of the Avengers… but, Handler-Steve hadn’t even suggested that he go with the team when the Dark Elves had come. Nobody else had suggested it either, they’d all seemed to know that he wouldn’t be coming, which, while strange, wouldn’t be a problem if it wasn’t extremely obvious that his handler _really_ wanted to go.

His mind flashes back to how tense his handler had been when Thor had been stuck and Stark had been trying to rescue him. He’s suddenly totally and completely certain that if anything bad had happened to either teammate, his handler would have blamed it on himself, deciding that if he’d been there, then he would have somehow magically made all the difference and have kept everyone safe.

That knowledge, once in his brain, seems undeniably true, and he _also_ knows that because of this, his handler isn’t one to step down from a fight if he can help it. But he _had_ this time, even if he obviously hadn’t wanted too and the Asset can’t figure out _why_ —

His eyes widen as a memory from his first few days at Avengers tower rises up in his mind. It had been his very first meeting with all the Avengers and he’d been mostly focused on zoning out at that point, but he had heard his handler telling the group that he wouldn’t be going on their missions with them.

 _“I know this isn’t the best time for me to sit out…”_ he had said after looking at him _. “But I think I’m needed here more.”_

That’s right, his handler had taken time off from leading the Avengers to help train him in his new role in Avengers Tower. His brow furls as he thinks over his recent training. He can’t deny that he’s learned a lot of new things with his handler and the other Avengers – but he can’t say he understands how his training sessions really apply to the types of missions the Avengers seem to receive.

He scowls up at the ceiling, unable to understand why his handler doesn’t seem to want to train him adequately enough to go on missions, especially since his handler obviously wants to go on those missions, and he can’t go until the Asset’s training is complete. 

He sits up, his brow furled, trying to find a solution to his dilemma. Obviously, there must be a reason behind his handler’s actions… but he doesn’t seem inclined to share it and – as his bed has already demonstrated – he’s perfectly willing to suffer in silence instead of doing anything to make himself more comfortable.

His hand tightens on his knee and he presses his lips together, the unfortunate solution to his problem becoming clear. If he wants to continue his training and release his handler back into the field, then _he’s_ probably going to have to be the one to initiate it.

The thought is daunting, especially since it involves confronting his handler about his handling practices which definitely falls into the realm of _not allowed_ … but… so had a lot of _other_ things he’d done while staying in the tower… and he has yet to be punished for _any_ of it so…

So, he just might be willing to risk it, if only to keep from having to watch his handler’s frustration at having to stay behind again.

Anxiety swims around in his stomach as he waits with growing apprehension for his handler to return from the party. He knows that if he overthinks this too long, he will either get swamped by his own programming or lose his nerve, so he clenches his jaw and commits to having this conversation with his handler as soon as possible.

That doesn’t mean he’s exactly prepared when he finally hears the door open and his handler step through. He stands up from his spot on the couch and his pulse is loud in his ears as he moves over to hover by the kitchen counter, his shoulders tense and hunched as he watches his handler come further into the room.

His handler scans him is he enters, probably confused by his abnormal behavior, and flicks his eyes around the room as if searching for the source of his anxiety. “Do you need something, Buck?” he asks, coming over to stand a few feet from the kitchen island.

The Asset swallows, a faint tremor running through him as he tries to drag up the right words. “I…” He places one hand on the counter next to him, trying to ground himself. “I am prepared to complete my training,” he tells his handler, internally bemoaning his inability to accurately articulate his actual concerns.

A look of confusion flashes over his handler’s face and he moves over to slowly sit down on one of the chairs lining the island. “Your training?” he asks, and the Asset rubs restlessly at the countertop.

“You are unable to complete any missions until my training is complete,” he says, focusing his gaze on his handler’s shoulder rather than his face. “I am ready to complete whatever training necessary in order to become an asset to the Avengers’ team.”

His handler’s face goes abruptly blank and the Asset eyes him warily as they sit in silence for several moments. His handler squeezes his eyes closed and runs a hand over his face before looking back at him, almost expressionless. “You want to be cleared to go on missions, is that right?” he asks carefully and the Asset nods slowly.

His handler flicks his eyes over him for another moment, something complicated happening in their depths that the Asset can’t quite read. “Is there a reason why?” his handler asks quietly and the Asset stares at him, unsure how to respond.

He feels his brow furl as he tries to understand the question. A reason why he wants to go on missions…? “The Asset is intended to assist his handler,” he recites a little uncertainly. “And you cannot go into the field until my training is complete.”

His handler’s eyes dim for a moment and he looks off to the side, his face contemplative as he taps one finger on the counter next to him. He closes his eyes and breathes in before looking back over to him. “This… might be a little hard to explain,” he starts slowly, his other hand beginning to rub along his pant leg. “But… your lack of training is not the reason I haven’t cleared you for missions yet.”

The Asset blinks at him, not quite understanding. “I can go on Avengers missions then?” he asks and his handler scans him.

“Why do you want to go on missions, Buck?” he asks softly.

The Asset finds himself tensing at the question without quite knowing why. “That is the primary function of the Asset,” he gets out, fighting the urge to draw away from his handler.

Handler-Steve nods and looks away again, his eyes distant. “I don’t feel comfortable with you going out into the field yet,” he says, and the Asset feels his stomach drop.

“But—” He takes a step forward without thinking. “You said my training wasn’t a problem,” he protests, steadily ignoring the part of his mind that’s busy trying to curl up in fear at the thought of arguing with his handler.

For his part, his handler blinks at him a little but doesn’t get mad. “You’re right,” he says evenly. “But I think there’s still some things you need to learn and— I’m afraid that if I try to tell you you’ll just— just do it because you think you’re supposed to.” The Asset stares uncomprehendingly and his handler sighs. “It’s not a bad thing that you can’t go on missions right now Bucky,” he says, his shoulders slumping a little. “That’s not your primary function anymore.”

The Asset takes an involuntary step back, a tremor beginning to settle into his bones as he tries to understand what his handler is saying. “I can’t go on missions anymore?” he asks, a little hollowly.

His handler winces and runs a hand through his hair, pressing his lips together. “It’s not because you did something bad Buck, it’s just—” He drags a hand down his face. “How ‘bout this.” He looks up at him. “You continue with your mission to live in Avengers Tower for now.” He lays his hand on the counter and sits up. “I believe that one day you will be ready to go on missions if you want,” he says, meeting his eyes. “I think that once you understand why I don’t want you going now, then you’ll be able to go on missions. If you want.”

The Asset breathes in a little shakily and swallows, his mind whirling at everything his handler has just said. He tightens his grip on the counter and tries to push away his confusion. He doesn’t understand why his handler doesn’t want him to go on any missions right now (and apparently he has to figure that out before he’s allowed) but there’s still one major problem.

“But you can’t go on any missions,” he says quietly, ducking his head to peer at his handler from behind the strands of his hair.

His handler’s face does something complicated before smoothing out, his shoulders loosening as well. “Is that the problem?” he asks softly.

The Asset swallows. “You want to go on missions,” he says, dropping his eyes.

His handler shifts in front of him and his hand presses into his leg. “You’re right,” he says finally, and when the Asset looks up again, his eyes are a little distant. After a moment his handler blinks and looks back towards him, taking in a deep breath. “If I go on the next mission,” he says slowly, his eyes on him. “Would that be acceptable?”

The Asset’s grip on the counter relaxes and he nods, relieved. “Yes,” he says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope Dark World made sense! In your comments from last chapter, some of you talked about 2023!Thor and Rocket, but they are in a different timeline (remember how Loki was in his cell in that one?) Our timeline Loki is still loose, and I decided that without him there, Frigga gets to survive and fulfill some of his roles in T:DW.
> 
> Anyway, Bucky had some interesting revelations today. Also, he worked up the courage to confront Steve. I tried to make Steve’s reasons for not wanting Bucky to go on missions yet clear, even though they are not clear at all to Bucky.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the space race causes unforeseen complications.

As confused as he is by the reasoning behind his handler’s choice to keep him off-mission, the Asset is at least gratified by his handler’s promise to go on the Avengers’ next mission. At least now he isn’t actively holding his handler back while he tries to figure out what he needs to do in order to be battle-worthy. His handler doesn’t seem to think that it’s something he can train for, which is frustrating, but his handler had also seemed to think it will come naturally, which is at least somewhat comforting.

He can’t help wondering if the other Avengers already know what hypothetical thing his handler is looking for. They were all aware of his handler’s decision to train him after all, and none of them have yet to suggest that the Asset accompany them on any missions, so the odds are good that they somehow already know that he is lacking in whatever his handler is looking for.

 _I’m afraid that if I try to tell you you’ll just— just do it because you think you’re supposed to_ , his handler had said, and the Asset finds his confusion growing the more he thinks about it. Of _course_ he’d do the things his handler says, that’s what he’s _supposed to do_ , that’s his _job._

He huffs in exasperation and tries to focus on something _other_ than his increasingly circular thoughts. Instead he scans the room in front of him, his posture relaxed as he takes everyone in. His handler is sitting with Barton and Wilson on the couch of the common room, Barton in control of the remote as he tries to choose a movie for them to watch. Stark is sitting a few feet away at the kitchen island, his gaze mostly focused on his tablet as he reads over various analyses of the Aether and its comparisons to the Tesseract and the sceptre.

Said sceptre had been taken off-planet by Thor a few days ago, since, as he claimed, the Aether had been successfully captured and moved to a safe location far from Asgard. Apparently it’s dangerous to keep too many power stone too close together.

The Asset hadn’t quite known what to think of Thor and his departure. The other Avengers had all seemed to like Thor and had wished him a swift return, but the Asset hadn’t really had any time to get to know him at all. His handler had given Thor his very own picture though, and Thor had been appropriately impressed, so that has to be a good sign.

“Have you ever watched _Apollo 13_?” he hears Barton ask and he focuses back to the couch in front of him. Both Handler-Steve and Wilson shake their heads and Barton smiles. “Oh man,” he says, sitting back. “It’s good. It's set during the 1970s. Based on a true story about a moon-mission gone wrong.”

His handler leans forward to read the movie description on screen. “I think I read something about that,” he says after a moment, and beside him, Wilson raises an eyebrow. “SHIELD gave me a lot of files to catch up on things,” his handler explains. “The space race was pretty interesting.”

Barton’s smile widens and he sits up, looking excited. “You have _no_ idea,” he says earnestly. “I went through a space phase as a kid. I read all the books in the library that I could get my hands on and acquired vast amounts of space facts to overshare.” He waves his free hand with a grin. “Did you know the first satellite the Russians launched was called _Sputnik?_ It means—"

Except the Asset doesn’t get to know what it means, because everything goes abruptly black.

oOo

He wakes up in the med bay to find his handler sitting on his right, Banner on his left and every other Avenger milling around the room with looks of varying degrees of concern on their faces.

“Bucky!” His handler leans towards him as soon as he realises he’s awake, his face sheet-white and obviously distressed. “Bucky I’m so sorry! I didn’t even _think_ to warn them about that word. It didn’t even occur to me that they might accidentally—” He cuts himself off as the Asset gives his head a groggy shake and sits up slowly, his movements carefully monitored by Dr Banner. “Are you alright?” Handler-Steve asks, his knuckles white on his knees. “I managed to catch you before you hit the ground. But… we weren’t sure how you would be after you woke up.”

The Asset nods at him, blinking heavily a few times as he tries to readjust to being awake again. Getting shutdown is always a little jarring – although, he has to admit that this is probably the most pleasant environment he’s ever woken up in before.

On his left, Banner leans towards him. “I’m just going to ask you a few questions, okay?” he says. “Nothing bad, just a check-up on how you’re doing.” He nods at the doctor and Banner gives him a small smile before shifting to cross his legs. “Okay,” he says. “Can you tell me your name?”

The Asset relaxes internally at the simple question. “The Asset,” he replies, and for some reason, his handler tenses beside him.

Banner continues undeterred and the Asset tries not to worry about it. “Do you know where you are?”

The examination continues like that and Dr Banner eventually clears him from the med bay. “Let me know if you have any complications,” he says earnestly as he stands from his stool. “Dizziness, nausea, anything.”

The Asset nods again, a little dazed at the amount of concern everyone seems to be showing towards him. Hydra had never been this careful after triggering him and it feels a little weird at how big a deal this seems to be. The whole _team_ had come into the med bay, all of them looking as though this isn’t a natural and expected part of his programming. 

Most of them stay further back from the bed, as though not wanting to crowd him, but Barton approaches his bedside as Banner gets up to leave. “I had no idea that was going to happen,” he says in a rush, his hands clenching on the handrailing. “I swear I wouldn’t have said it if I'd known.”

The Asset flicks his eyes over him, a little confused, since he can’t quite understand why Barton is so distressed, but he gives him an accepting nod anyways. “Handler-Steve can instruct you on my trigger words if you need them,” he tells him, a part of him wondering why Barton hadn’t been trained with his trigger words already.

Barton’s face twists slightly and out of the corner of his eye, the Asset sees Romanoff twitch and give him an assessing look, a glint of surprise in her eyes. He doesn’t have time to try to analyse any of that though, because his handler speaks up.

“We’ll talk about that later,” he says decisively. “If anything, this incident is a reminder that we’re going to have to figure something out for the trigger words.”

The Asset turns to look at him, his brow furled slightly in confusion as a flash of anxiety twists sharply in his stomach. So far in his stay at the tower, the Avengers haven’t bothered much with his trigger words, whether in using them or programming in new ones, but maybe now…

He suppresses a shiver and swallows, squeezing his hands together in his lap. Maybe _this_ is the reason his handler doesn’t want him to go out in the field yet.

oOo

The Avengers gather in the meeting room after lunch to discuss his trigger words, and much to his surprise, they don’t want to re-program him at _all_.

“Is there any way we can remove them?” his handler asks, and the Asset stares at him, his mind nearly blank with shock as he takes in his words. Removing his trigger words hadn’t even crossed his mind before, and the very _idea_ of it is flabbergasting.

The other Avengers don’t seem to think so though.

“Deprogramming isn’t exactly a legitimate technique,” Wilson tells them, shifting a little in his seat. “Most people who claim to practice it are pretty bogus.”

“Besides,” Barton speaks up. “Most of the time, people are trying to ‘deprogram’ people who’ve joined cults and stuff… Bucky’s programming seems a little more concrete than that.”

“There must be _something_ we can do,” his handler insists, and the Asset blinks at him, trying to understand _why_ he would want to sabotage his own weapon like this. Surely that can’t be useful to the team— His eyes widen and a cold rush of fear floods through him as he’s struck by the sudden thought that maybe, with all his memory/malfunctions, he’s too dysfunctional to the team and now they don’t want him anymore.

He flicks his eyes around the room and tries to regulate his breathing, hoping to calm himself. _My handler said I could join the missions_ eventually, he tries to reason. _And he said it wasn’t a_ bad _thing that I can’t go on missions, and he discontinued cryofreeze protocols so even if they decommission me, I won’t be going back in there—_

“If I had to guess,” Romanoff speaks up suddenly, her arms crossed over her chest and her face closed off. “Bucky’s programming is likely based off of years and years of conditioning. If we want to remove the trigger words, we’re going to have to desensitize him to them.”

His handler turns to her. “What do you mean?”

Romanoff flicks her eyes over him before looking over to Handler-Steve. “Bucky’s trigger words work because the sound of them triggers a conditioned response,” she says. “But ultimately, they’re just words. If we expose him to the words enough times, he might be able to start fighting them.”

“Exposure therapy,” Wilson says, and Romanoff nods.

His handler shifts in his seat. “Are we sure triggering Bucky over and over again is the best option?” He glances over to him and his hands tighten on the edge of the table in front of him. “What if that just undoes all the progress he’s already made?”

Romanoff purses her lips together. “I’m not saying we start triggering him right away,” she says. “If we start by just saying one or two words at a time, and then work our way up, we might be able to desensitize him to the triggering process.”

His handler glances uncertainly towards him and under the table, his leg starts bouncing as he thinks. The Asset squints at his restless behavior, surprised at how obvious he’s being. Usually his handler at least tries to _look_ more put together—

— _He watches Steve flash a showy smile at a younger soldier before subtly stepping away and making his way out of camp, heading for the treeline. He gets up to follow, sidestepping a group of soldiers by the mess hall and ducking into the trees, his eyes scanning the forest for any trace of Steve’s distinctive colouring._

_He finds him about ten minutes out from camp, his back pressed against a pine tree and a lit cigarette in hand. He approaches slowly and watches as Steve takes a pull from the cigarette, a faraway, almost empty look on his face._

_He doesn’t like that look at all. It’s too similar to the look soldiers get when they just shut down, lights on, but nobody home, and he never never wants to see that look on Steve’s face. After a moment, he takes a step forward and leans against the tree, crossing his arms. “You know…” He drawls, his eyes watching Steve. “Hiding out in trees is a good way to get shot at by friendly fire.”_

_Steve doesn’t look up. “Yeah,” he sighs, tapping the ash off his cigarette. “Guess I just needed somewhere quiet.”—_

“I have something that might help.” The Asset blinks back into reality and turns over to look at Stark, wondering what the man intends to offer. Stark shifts in his seat a little and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s still kind of experimental,” he admits. “But I was looking into it after Clint accidentally triggered Barnes and well, Stark Industries might have something that could help with this whole–” he waves a hand. “–deprogramming thing.”

His handler leans forward, intrigued. “What did you have in mind?”

“It’s called Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing,” Stark tells them. “Or BARF for short.” His handler’s mouth quirks slightly at the acronym, but he stays silent as Stark continues to explain his device. “It’s something SI has been looking into,” he says. “Basically, it’s a holographic illusion system. We’ve been looking into the applications for it and I think that it can be used to sort of… re-examine memories, maybe, process them a little better. If it works, then it might help Barnes relearn his response to the trigger words.”

“Would it be dangerous?” his handler asks.

Stark shrugs. “None of the initial tests have been worrying,” he says. “Of course, it still needs some work before I’d want to try it out, to be honest, we weren’t going to release it for a while, it’s still being developed but…” He looks around the table. “Well, I’m thinking I might have some free time to work on it coming up.”

His handler’s brow furls for a second before it smooths out in understanding. The other Avengers don’t seem so enlightened. “What do you mean?” Banner asks, sitting up slightly.

Stark flashes him a smile and taps his fingers on the table. “Wasn’t sure when I was going to break the news, but I guess now is as good a time as any,” he says, his shoulders just a little too tight to be relaxed. “I’ve been thinking for a while now about getting my arc reactor removed.” He taps his chest with a dull click. “I’ve found a doctor who’s willing to do the surgery… but he says it’s about a six-week recovery period.”

Stark shifts in his seat and breathes in. “With our crazy lives I wasn’t sure when would be the best time to do it, but… I kind of realised after the whole thing with Thor that there’s _never_ going to be a perfect time.” He shrugs. “So I’m just going to have to try and hope for the best.” He quirks a smile at them. “I’m not allowed to do any Avenging while I’m recovering, under pains of _death_ from Pepper so… you guys’ll have to make do without me for a while.” 

His handler smiles proudly at Stark and leans forward. “I’ll be rejoining the team pretty soon,” he tells them. “So, we won’t be short a person.”

Stark relaxes at that and straightens his shoulders. “Good. Okay.” He leans forward. “So I can begin looking into BARF in my spare time then.”

The other Avengers begin to nod, but Banner speaks up. “I think,” he says quietly. “We should ask Bucky how he feels about this.”

The Asset feels his heart freeze for a second before restarting double-time as everyone turns to him. His eyes widen in a deer-in-the-headlights look at their attention, and any words he might have had dry up instantly in his mouth.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do Bucky,” his handler tells him gently. “If you’re not ready, then that’s fine.”

He flicks his eyes over to his handler for a second before scanning the table. He’s not exactly sure how true his handler’s words are. While it may be true that none of them will force him into this, it’s obvious that with Stark’s upcoming surgery, dealing with his trigger words _now_ will be most convenient for everyone. Of course, he still doesn’t understand _why_ it’s so important to remove the words, but everyone seems to want to.

He looks at his handler, his tongue working in his mouth as he tries to build up the courage to ask what he wants. His handler hadn’t gotten mad at him the _last_ time he’d questioned him, so maybe he won’t now. He swallows. Of course, that had been in a more private setting and not in front of all the Avengers, so maybe it would be better to just not—

“Bucky?” His handler ducks his head a little to catch his eye and the Asset meets his gaze, his hands tightening on his knees as he chews on the inside of his cheek. He grits his teeth and flicks his eyes around the room again, noting how they all seem to be waiting for him to make a decision. But he doesn’t understand _why_ this is so important. Shouldn’t they _want_ his trigger words?

“I…” He ducks his head. “I will be useless without the trigger words,” he mumbles, his hushed voice barely audible.

His handler’s eyes widen, and he seems to give an aborted lurch forward. “Oh Bucky, no,” he says, his voice strained and his hand coming up to hover in the air for a moment before he sets it down again. “You will _never_ be useless. We want to take out the trigger words because you don’t need them anymore but that— that won’t make you any less useful.”

His handler’s face looks like he’s just swallowed a whole lemon and the Asset eyes him a little uncertainly, trying to understand why he wouldn’t need the trigger words anymore.

“And.” He darts his head up to look over at Wilson, the man leaning towards him. “If we take out the trigger words then we can be sure that no one from Hydra will ever be able to trigger you on any of our missions.”

The Asset nods slowly at that, the Avengers’ reasoning slowly beginning to make more sense. It’s understandable that the Avengers wouldn’t want to have a soldier who might accidentally start following the orders of the people they’re fighting. (And the thought of being out from under Hydra’s control is strangely relieving as well.)

He relaxes back into his chair, his resolve settling. It might still feel weird to think about removing his trigger words, but… but he can probably fight without them. He nods to himself and blinks a little at the realisation. He’s… he’s pretty sure his handler wouldn’t have to trigger him at _all_ , and he’d still follow him perfectly in the field.

Of _course_ he would. He doesn’t need trigger words for that. He can follow his handler anywhere. _To the end of the line,_ he thinks with a flare of determined stubbornness.

“Are you sure, Buck?” His attention gets drawn back to his handler who’s busy looking concerned. “I can’t promise this is going to be easy,” he says. “This is probably going to be rough for everyone involved.”

The Asset nods again. He’s under no illusions as to how hard this is going to be. It had been hard enough to implant the triggers in the _first_ place but… but if it will keep Hydra from getting control of him then… then it will be worth it.

“Yes,” he says. 

oOo

They don’t get started with removing his trigger words right away. They first have to wait for Stark to get the tech ready and make sure it can do what they want. Apparently, the BARF technology, although Stark tech, had originally been designed by someone named Quentin Beck, one of Stark’s employees.

Because of this, Beck ends up spending more and more time with Stark as they work on preparing the technology, although the Asset doesn’t see much of them, since they’ve sectioned off one of the unused rooms in the tower as their base of operations.

“It’s big enough and empty enough to project your memories,” Stark tells him one day when he comes in to get his head measured and fitted for the BARF gear, his footsteps echoing in the white room. The Asset stays silent as Stark rambles, his voice almost covering Beck’s quiet tinkering at a computer desk a few feet away.

To be honest, he hadn’t spent a lot of time with Stark before the man had offered his BARF technology, so at first, he hadn’t exactly been sure what to expect. For whatever reason, Stark had never participated with the other Avengers when they had begun to take him out for activities, so the Asset had never gotten a chance to learn what Stark is like by himself.

Apparently, he likes to talk, a lot.

“I have to admit, I’ll be glad when we’ve erased those trigger words,” Stark continues to chat as he holds up a measuring tape, and the Asset flicks his eyes to him, a little intrigued. “I almost had a _heart attack_ when you collapsed,” Stark explains. “I thought you’d died or something. Steve _literally_ jumped over the back of the couch to get to you. I swear I’ve never seen him move so fast in my _life_.”

The Asset blinks, a little bemused but also touched by how affected his handler and everyone else seems to have been by his triggering.

“Okay, look left,” Stark mutters, his eyes more focused as he sets down the tape and moves to stick an electrode to his forehead. The Asset complies and breathes in slowly, letting Stark work. He knows, by now, that Stark will not hurt him (at least not on purpose), and that this tech is designed to help him but… he can’t help that it reminds him a little of Hydra’s work with him.

“If we had more time, I’d make this more portable and convenient, like a pair of glasses,” Stark speaks up, distracting him from thoughts of mouth guards and too-tight clamps. “We obviously want to make sure you’re not trailing wires once we get started,” Stark continues. “But for now, we just want to make sure it _works_.”

He steps away and the Asset is careful to hold still and not disturb the various wires attached to his head. Stark double-checks the connections for a moment, darting around the space and fiddling with the cameras circling the room on tripods. The Asset watches his quick but measured movements and can’t help admiring how at ease Stark seems to be among all his technology—

— _he fights down a smile as he watches Howard shuffling through his papers, his voice chugging along a-mile-a-minute._

 _“I’ve been trying to trim down our radios, get them a little smaller and more portable, while also transmitting a decent signal.” Howard pulls up a sketch and shows it to him. “And have you_ seen _what they’re doing with radar now?”_

_“And my gun?” he cuts in. “You said you would adjust the grip?”_

_“Yes.” Howard sets down his paper. “Right. Also, while you’re here, I was thinking of remeasuring the strap–”_

_He gets cut off as a harried looking assistant rushes in. “Stark, do you have that proposal ready yet?” she asks. “The meeting is in half-an-hour—_

Stark steps back over to Beck and looks down at their collection of monitors. “How we lookin’?”

Beck lists off a string of technical terms that the Asset doesn’t exactly understand but he’s too busy trying to analyse his last memory/malfunction to really pay attention. His eyes flick up to Stark and he stares, darting his gaze over the goatee and mussed hair that suddenly looks _very_ familiar.

He swallows, his mind spinning as he tries to understand what he’s seeing. The man who’d looked like Stark in the memory/malfunction had been called Howard — and he remembers now, his handler had known someone named Howard, had gotten his shield from him _—_ but the assistant had _also_ called the man _Stark._

“Okay,” Stark says, cutting into the Asset’s train of thought and catching his attention. “So I’ve already tried this out myself so I can guarantee it _will not hurt._ ” The Asset blinks and finds himself relaxing shoulders that he hadn’t even known were tense at the reassurance. “All we’re doing today is making sure it responds to you,” Stark continues. The Asset nods carefully and Stark turns to the computer, his hand hovering over a switch. “I’m going to turn it on,” he says. “Once it’s on, think of any memory you want and we should be good from there.”

The Asset tries not to tense at the idea of purposely triggering a memory. He knows that that is the whole purpose of Stark’s technology — so obviously he’s not about to get in trouble for _having_ memories like he would have with Hydra… But he can’t help the uneasiness he feels at revealing publicly that his programming has disintegrated overtime.

Of course, that doesn’t seem to _matter_ to the Avengers, seeing how their trying to erase his trigger words _altogether_ so…

He gives his head a little shake and tries to focus, sifting through the various memories he could choose as Stark goes to turn on the machine. Despite how the Avengers might feel about him having memories, he thinks it will probably be best not to choose one from before he’d reunited with his handler. Just to be safe. His eyes flick up to Stark again, and it’s probably his recent confusion over him and the other Stark that influences his choice of test-memory.

He doesn’t even realise the machine is activated before flickering images begin to project from the cameras around the room. Stark murmurs something to Beck and the picture sharpens, and the Asset can now see himself and his handler as they stand in what appears to be Stark’s lab, the robots DUM-E and U wheeling around them excitedly.

He blinks and his mouth quirks up slightly as he recognises the time he and his handler had gone down to Stark’s lab and visited the bots. At the time he’d been anxious and half-expecting to be punished, but his handler had done nothing of the kind. Instead he had introduced him to the robots and begun to play with them.

“ _I think they get lonely by themselves,”_ the hologram of his handler says as he pets a holographic DUM-E. The excited robot soon begins to offer things to his handler as a form of fetch, and the Asset watches as his own hologram begins to cautiously hand the items over to U.

It feels a little strange to watch his own memory from the outside, but it does offer an interesting perspective. He hadn’t realised that he’d had the barest hints of a pleased expression on his face while he’d been playing with U.

On the other side of the hologram, Beck types something into the computer and the image flickers out. The Asset looks up to see Stark standing beside the computers with an absolute _soft_ expression on his face. He grins and looks up, catching his eye. “Looks like it works,” he says, the smile growing over his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I heard in that in the comic, Hydra uses the word Sputnik as a shutdown protocol to shutdown Bucky, and I thought that the Avengers would be appropriately horrified, even if Bucky doesn’t realise yet how invasive his trigger words are yet.
> 
> And, even though it’s still a few years before Stark official unveils the BARF tech, I figured something as complicated as that must have been in development for a while, and now he will have a reason to focus on it and develop it faster.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset and Stark make some discoveries.

They decide to wait on moving forward with the BARF technology until after Stark has had his surgery, which isn’t until the beginning of August, but it gives Stark some more time to streamline the tech a little and work out any kinks. The delay is fine with the Asset too, because it gives him a little more time to try to figure out what he had seen in his memory/malfunction with Howard.

 _Howard Stark._ He turns the name over in his head, doing his best to remember the man’s face. He can’t deny that there is a striking resemblance to Stark… and… and he’s pretty sure that Stark had triggered memories of Howard before… but he had been too confused by the rest of the changes around him to really think about it until now.

 _Howard seems to have been our mission supplier,_ he thinks as he analyses the few memories he can confidently assign to the man. His handler had gotten his shield from Howard and, based off of what he can remember, the man had obviously been assigned to maintain the Asset’s various weapons as well.

His role is actually pretty similar to Stark’s, now that he thinks about it… the two of them taking care of and equipping the team for their missions. His brow furls and he chews on the inside of his cheek as he thinks over the two men. Something about Howard and Stark seems… important.

He’s still thinking about it that night after his handler goes to sleep, his mind seemingly unable to let the man go now that he remembers him. He tosses and turns a little on the couch (although, not too much for fear of falling off) before finally sitting up with a huff and looking up towards the ceiling. He’s obviously not going to get any rest until he figures this out and there’s one source that he’s pretty sure will be able to help him.

“JARVIS?” he says in a low whisper, his pulse speeding up habitually. 

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?” JARVIS replies, his voice, as usual, slightly hushed so as to not disturb his handler.

The Asset swallows and shifts a little on the couch. “Do… do you know someone named Howard Stark?”

Silence falls for a moment before JARVIS projects a black and white image of a mustached man unto the wall beside him. “Is this who you are referring to?” JARVIS asks, and the Asset nods, squinting a little at the bright light of the hologram. The image flickers and JARVIS moves on to display a basic debriefing file on Howard, and the Asset takes it in with wide eyes.

 _Birth:_ August 15, 1917

 _Death:_ December 16, 1991

 _Marital status:_ Married— Maria Stark née Carbonell

 _Extended family:_ Anthony Stark

The list goes on, but the Asset finds himself transfixed by the listed family members, his mouth suddenly dry as he reads over the name again. His eyes flick over the document and he mentally pulls up the faces of both Howard and Stark.

“JARVIS,” he says quietly. “Stark is… How is Anthony Stark related to Howard?”

“Sir is the biological son of Howard Stark,” JARVIS replies, and the Asset nods slowly, the pieces of his memories/malfunctions starting to make more sense. It’s not surprising, now that he understands, that Stark would remind him of Howard because Howard was his _father_.

Stark had never mentioned his father before— or his mother, now that he thinks about it— and he can’t help wondering about that a little. Now that he knows he knew Howard, a part of him kind of wishes that Stark would talk about it. There seems to be very few people around that he actually knows, besides his handler.

Talking about Howard with Stark almost seems like a pleasant idea, despite how little he can actually remember about the man… But obviously Stark doesn’t feel comfortable talking about Howard, for whatever reason, or he’s sure it would have come up before now, so it’s probably best if he just leaves it alone for now.

He turns back to the hologram. “Is Maria Stark still living?” he asks JARVIS, unable to keep from noticing that Stark had never brought up the woman before either.

“She is not,” JARVIS replies, the hologram flickering to show a smiling woman with brown hair and a blue dress.

 _That explains it,_ the Asset thinks as he looks over the picture. If both Maria and Howard are dead, it is not surprising that Stark would not want to talk about them much.

“Thank you, JARVIS,” he says with a nod, and the AI shuts down the hologram.

“You are most welcome, Sergeant Barnes.” 

oOo

The day of Stark’s surgery arrives, and the Avengers congregate in the common room to see him off.

“Well.” Stark shrugs into the coat that Pepper offers him. Behind him, another friend name Rhodey waits patiently by the elevator. “I’ll see you guys on the other side.”

His handler gives Stark a small smile and crosses his arms. “Good luck Tony,” he says.

Stark flashes him a quick smile and a mock salute before turning away with Pepper and Rhodey, the elevator opening for them automatically. The Asset watches as they step in and the doors close behind them, a strange feeling of unease settling into his stomach.

He knows he doesn’t need to be worried about Stark’s surgery. The doctor they had chosen is apparently very advanced in his field and very skilled at delicate surgeries so everything _should_ be fine… but the thought of one of the Avengers going to the hospital doesn’t sit right with him.

— _He steps into Steve’s room and winces slightly at the ragged breathing that greets him. Behind him he can hear his Ma and Ma Rogers talking in hushed tones in the living room, their voices tight and strained as they discuss doctor’s expenses and whether or not they should call in Rev. Johnson to see to Steve._

 _He swallows and tries not to think too hard as to_ why _they might feel the need to call a priest to Steve’s bedside. Instead he takes a step further into the room and skates his eyes over to where Steve is laid out on his bed._

_Sweat beads up on Steve’s forehead, his hair damp and sticking up at odd angles as he tosses his head a little, his eyes squeezed shut as he sucks in another laboured breath. The image leaves him shaken and he fiddles with the edges of his shirt as he watches Steve struggle to breathe._

_This isn’t the first time he’s seen him sick in bed. Steve has been laid up enough times with colds and asthma attacks and just plain exhaustion that the sight isn’t uncommon. But it’s different this time. This time even Ma Rogers doesn’t know if he’ll get better and judging from the look in her eye—_

_“Bucky?” His head snaps up at the raspy sound of his name and he meets Steve’s glazed and feverish gaze._

_“Steve,” he gasps, taking a step forward, his hand reaching out. On the bed, Steve struggles to sit up and he rushes to push him back down again. “Steve, you gotta rest.”_

_Steve’s breath wheezes and he finds his heart stuttering along with it. “You gotta—” Steve coughs and grabs desperately at his hand. “I— I heard the doc. You gotta— you gotta tell ‘em I’m not—” His eyes glint and his hand tightens. “I’m not gonna die,” he grits out determinedly. “Not yet. I’m not gonna.”_

_His throat closes up for a second and he nods, his eyes wet. “Okay, Stevie,” he says quietly. “Okay.”—_

“Bucky?” He blinks and gives his head a shake. Coming back to reality and turning to look over at his handler, his chest tight at the thought of how close he had seemed to death in that memory/malfunction.

“Bruce said he’s going to make lunch,” his handler tells him, eyeing him a little as though to make sure he’s listening. The Asset nods and moves to follow him to the kitchen island where Barton is setting out plates and cutlery for everyone. He eyes his handler’s broad shoulders and decides he’s glad he doesn’t look as sick and frail as he used to.

It isn’t until after lunch, when his handler goes down to the gym to train with Romanoff and he goes up to his room to write down his most recent memory/malfunction, that he realises he’d called his handler _Stevie_ in it.

He mulls the name over in his mind for a moment and finds he likes the sound of it, even if he’s not sure if calling his handler that _now_ would be acceptable. (A part of him can’t help thinking that his handler _probably_ wouldn’t mind though, if he did.)

oOo

Stark has to stay in the hospital for a week after his surgery, and even though the Asset hadn’t really spent a lot of time with him, the tower still feels a little quieter without him.

They all go in to visit him on the third day, and the Asset gets the impression that generally, six people are not allowed to go in to visit someone at once, but the nurses seem willing to bend the rules for the Avengers and Tony Stark.

Stark is awake and lucid when they come in and the Asset steps back to allow the other Avengers to come closer. He’s glad he had been allowed to accompany them on this trip – the sight of Stark alive and relatively healthy doing a great deal to ease his mind – but he still doesn’t really know Stark all that well, and he has no idea what one would say to someone sitting in the hospital.

“How are you feeling, Tony?” Banner asks as the Avengers spread themselves around the room. Stark waves his hand carefully and flashes him a grin.

“Oh, you know,” he says casually. “I’m already sick of hospital food. Have you guys _seen_ the kinds of things they feed us here?”

Barton then goes off on what kind of food SHEILD used to serve in their med bays and Natasha chimes in with a story about how Barton had once tried to hide a bullet wound because fish had been on the menu that day, which earns a stern general announcement from Banner that hiding wounds for any reason is not acceptable (he seems to aim his words in the particular direction of his handler and Stark, which the Asset finds amusing.)

The meeting wraps up once Stark becomes visibly tired, and they all begin to file out with nods and well wishes. For his part, the Asset hadn’t been intending to say anything, but Stark calls after him.

“We’ll get started on BARF right away, once I’m out of here,” he tells him, and the Asset gives him a quiet nod.

oOo

Stark returns from the hospital by the end of the week and is put on a strict regiment of light, non-strenuous work by Pepper. Stark whines and grumbles at the restraints, but the Asset gets the impression that it’s more for show than anything else. Even if it’s not, the Avengers are 100% on board the ‘keep Stark from overdoing it’ train, and it’s unlikely that he’ll be able to get away with anything if he tries.

Of course, it would be impossible to keep Stark from his work completely, but luckily JARVIS’ presence makes it so that Stark can do most of his designing and tinkering sitting down, only needing his voice to order JARVIS to test this-and-that or change such-and-such.

He continues to work on the BARF technology and the Asset finds himself spending more and more time in his lab. His handler accompanies him for the first few times, but eventually Stark tells him it’s fine to leave, and Handler-Steve begins to leave him with Stark when he goes off to his doctor’s appointments.

Such as today, for example. He’s in the lab, busy watching Stark push himself around on a rolling chair and trying not to think too hard about the regularity of his handler’s doctor’s appointments. It’s difficult not to worry about. His handler had said that the serum had healed him of his various ailments, but the Asset can remember better now how _sick_ his handler used to get— and his handler goes to the doctor nearly _every week_ , surely _something_ must be going on, and he can’t help worrying that maybe the serum hadn’t healed his handler as thoroughly as he’d claimed.

“Okay, try this on,” Stark rolls up toward him, cutting off his train of thought and holding out a pair of glasses. The Asset blinks and reaches out to take them, a set of lights on the arm of the glasses lighting up as he puts them on.

“Okay J,” Stark pushes away and rolls over to a desk. “How we lookin’?”

“The frames seem to be able to pick up on Sergeant Barnes’ brainwaves,” JARVIS replies. “It is likely they will prove an effective tool for the BARF technology.”

Stark lets out a whoop, his arms twitching like he wants to pump his fists in the air but thinks better of it. “Good,” he says, looking up at him. “Now you won’t have to be trailing a load of wires.” He rubs his hands together. “We’ll tell Steve the good news once he gets back.”

The Asset nods and he wonders if Stark knows the reason his handler goes to doctor’s appointments all the time.

Handler-Steve gets back, and they meet him together in the common room. “So, from the tech side of things, we’re ready,” Stark tells him, easing himself down on the couch beside where Wilson is reading. “We just need to decide our game plan and go.”

“That’s good to hear,” his handler says, moving to sit across from Stark. Wilson doesn’t look up as he moves, but he does shift his feet so the Asset can settle down on the couch next to him. The Asset does so and listens in as Stark and Handler-Steve work on figuring out how to remove his trigger words.

“I’ll have JARVIS make a recording of you saying the trigger words,” Stark says. “That way we’ll have the whole sequence without you having to actually trigger Barnes. After that I think it’s just a matter of exposure to the words and retro-framing with the BARF tech.”

“You think the tech will work?” his handler asks, leaning forward almost anxiously.

Stark shrugs. “All I can say is it seems logically sound. Barnes will get a chance to be desensitized to the words and the retro-framing will allow him to mentally practice resisting the sequence itself.”

His handler nods satisfied, and he and Stark settle a time for him to record the trigger words before Stark heaves himself up and disappears back down to his labs, saying something about informing Beck about his breakthrough on the BARF glasses.

His handler sighs and leans back in his chair before looking up as Wilson shuts his book and sits up a little. His handler looks over, and Wilson gives him a look. “There’s a few things I wanted to talk to you two about,” he says. His handler doesn’t seem surprised and he nods as the Asset looks over, intrigued. Wilson sets his book aside and looks them both in the eye. “This thing that Stark is suggesting, I believe it’s going to help… but you do realise it’s going to bring up a lot of bad memories too, right?”

His handler’s lips press together as he nods reluctantly and the Asset swallows, his hands moving to clasp together in his lap.

Wilson nods at them and leans forward to place his elbows on his knees, turning his head to address the Asset directly. “Bucky…” he begins slowly. “Have you given any thought to whether or not you want Steve there in the room with you? I assume Stark, and maybe Beck need to be there to manage the tech but, what you’re going to be doing is pretty intimate and you might not want everyone to see the things you do.”

The Asset swallows and his hands press together tighter in his lap as he scans Wilson. He hadn’t really thought about that before, but now that he’s thinking about it, he isn’t sure how he feels about having his memories projected for everyone to see.

“Of course,” Wilson continues. “Having someone there with you might be comforting, so it’s really up to you.”

He flicks his eyes up to his handler and he can understand why it might be nice to have him there to help ground him while going through his memories… But he can’t help thinking how upset his handler had been the last time he’d been triggered. His handler obviously has some problems with how Hydra had been run, and watching them in first person probably wouldn’t be good for him at all.

His handler leans forward, catching his eye. “Either one you want is fine Buck,” he says earnestly. “And if you change your mind at any point, that’s okay too.”

The Asset finds himself fiddling with his fingers and he looks down, trying to decide what he wants. Both Wilson and his handler seem to be completely open to either option, and so far no one has ever gotten mad at him for any of his choices, so he’s confident enough to trust that whatever he chooses really _will_ be fine… he just needs to figure out what he wants.

He thinks back to his handler’s pale face next to his bedside when Barton had triggered him, and he looks up. “I… can do it alone,” he says slowly, his resolve hardening.

Wilson nods, offering him a gentle smile. “Okay then,” he says, leaning back. “Are you okay with Stark being there? Or Beck? I think they have to be there, but we might be able to come up with something.”

The Asset nods in acceptance. “That’s fine,” he says quickly, wanting to move on from the whole ‘making decisions’ part of the conversation. He finds he doesn’t mind as much the thought of Stark seeing his memories. He doesn’t know Stark as well, and he knows Beck even less, so he doesn’t have to worry as much about their personal reactions to the scenes.

“Okay.” He looks over to his handler who’s offering him a small, tight smile. “That’s okay, just…” He darts his eyes around the room for a second before looking back at him. “If you ever want to talk about anything, that’s okay too.”

The Asset nods again and his handler seems to relax, his smile widening as he breathes in. Wilson smiles at him too and the Asset has to duck his head at the sheer amount of _pride_ that seems to be radiating off of the two men. He can’t help it when his mouth quirks up a little at the edges too.

oOo

Despite his decision to go ahead with everything, and despite all the reassurances from his handler and the other Avengers, he can’t help feeling almost sick with nerves on the day of the first full test of the machine.

He stands in the middle of the room, glasses on his face and Stark and Beck off to the side with the monitors, and he tries to breathe, knowing any second now, Stark is going to start playing the recording of his handler saying the trigger words.

“Okay,” Stark says, carefully taking his seat and casting one last look over the computer screens. “So, given how this is all rather experimental, I’m just going to play one of the words today.” He taps something on the screen. “Your job is just to sit there and think, then we’ll see where that goes.”

The Asset nods and swallows, trying to relax his shoulders as he waits for the first trigger word.

“ _Желаниe_.”

He tries not to tense – because really, triggering _shouldn’t_ be a big deal – but he can’t help the slight hunching of his shoulders as the word echoes from the speakers set up on the walls of the room. Stark had made it so that the mics and cameras are mounted to the walls, so as to not be in the way, and now, as he looks around, a holographic image begins to form in front of him.

He doesn’t exactly know what to expect as the hologram flickers into view, Stark had said that the BARF tech can pick up on subconscious thoughts as well as intentional ones and he had been too busy worrying about the trigger words themselves to actually _think_ of something specific to project.

The scene solidifies and he can immediately tell from the dark lighting that it’s set in the Siberian base he’d been stationed at before coming to America. He shivers slightly and watches the hologram of himself sitting in his recalibration chair, his body shaking and gasping as behind him, Handler-Karpov paces and recites the trigger sequence.

“ _Pжавый_ ,” he says, and the Asset shudders, his programming waking up for the first time in a long time. His holographic self jerks as well, breathing in sharply and closing his eyes. “ _Семнадцать_ ,” Handler-Karpov continues, and the Asset has to swallow down a wave of nausea at the words.

“ _Рассвет_ ,” Handler-Karpov says, and he can feel himself relaxing into the sequence, his eyes closing as his breathing slows and he settles down to wait for his next mission—

 _Wait no._ His eyes fly open and he jerks back a step, realising suddenly that he’s about to be triggered by the blasted _hologram_. This is the exact _opposite_ of the goal of the exercise— and if he gets triggered _now_ he has no idea what’s going to happen—

“ _Печь,_ ” Handler-Karpov says, and he panics, reaching up and snatching off the glasses with his right hand, his breaths loud and sharp in the room as the hologram disintegrates, the cameras no longer connected to the data they need to project anything. He sucks in a breath and stumbles back until his shoulders hit the wall behind him, his right hand shaking as he clutches the glasses.

“Okay.” He snaps his head up to see Stark standing up carefully and stepping away from the computers, his hands raised as he keeps his distance. Beside him, Beck only stares at him, a thoughtful look on his face. “Okay,” Stark says again slowly. “So, maybe we didn’t think that all the way through.”

The Asset breathes in and nods shakily. Across from him, Stark swallows and looks him over, his feet shifting indecisively where he's standing, and the Asset can’t help thinking that he should probably sit down soon, given how he’s still healing.

“We can take a break if you want,” Stark says, without sitting down. “You can go… do whatever you do to calm down and we can try again later.” A look of annoyance flashes over Beck’s face before being carefully hidden again and Stark keeps talking. “Maybe I should have explained this part a little better, but when you’re watching the holograms, you don’t have to let them play out if you don’t want to.”

The Asset blinks at him and finds himself slowly relaxing as Stark begins to ramble, his hands moving as much as his recent surgery will allow him. “That’s the whole point of it really,” he says. “You have complete control. You can make it so they say the wrong word or so the triggering doesn’t work.” His hand waves. “That’s what the whole ‘retro-framing’ part of the tech is about. It won’t _replace_ your memories, but it can help you reprocess them, and hopefully get used to resisting the whole triggering thing.”

The Asset nods slowly and finds his shoulders a little looser than they’d used to be. His eyes flick over the cameras on the walls before he sucks in a deep breath and steps back into the middle of the room. Stark stops talking as he moves, his hands still as his eyes follow his progress.

“I can go again,” he tells him, already slipping the glasses back on and breathing through the nerves in his stomach.

“Really?” Stark asks a little dubiously and the Asset nods determinedly, his jaw clenching. He knows that Stark had offered to end the session for now, but while the last incident may have shaken him, he’d come here for a _reason_ and he’s not about to give up after the first try. The BARF tech is supposed to help him, and it isn’t going to work if he doesn’t keep working with it.

And… he has to admit that part of him wants to see if he really _can_ resist the triggering sequence from Handler-Karpov. 

Stark nods slowly at him and moves over to finally sit down again, his face tight as he waits for the Asset to begin again. For his part, the Asset sucks in a breath and closes his eyes, trying to pull up the scene from before.

“ _Pжавый.”_ Handler-Karpov says, and he opens his eyes, watching anew as his holographic self sits in the chair and Handler-Karpov reads out the trigger words.

“ _Семнадцать.”_

He closes his eyes again and breathes in evenly, fighting the urge to succumb to the triggering sequence. _Make it so they say the wrong word_ , Stark had said, and he furls his brow, trying to think of the word he wants to use. 

“ _Рассвет.”_ Daybreak.

“ _Печь.”_ Furnace.

“ _Девять_.” Nine.

“ _Иаков_.” James.

He opens his eyes and holo-Karpov reflects the surprise he feels at the unexpected word in the sequence. “ _Иаков_ ,” he says again and the Asset watches in a semi-stunned state as his holo-self gives his head a shake and looks over at Handler-Karpov, his eyes confused but sharper than they had been.

His own mouth quirks up slightly as he watches his holo-self sit up and begin tugging at the restraints on his chair. He can’t say for sure exactly why he had chosen Yakov as the word to throw off the triggering sequence, in fact, he can’t actually remember consciously picking it… but something about it feels _right_ anyways, and Karpov’s shocked face is a sight to behold.

Of course, if something like this had happened in _real_ life, his handler wouldn’t just be standing there while he tried to free himself from his chair. Resistance is unacceptable, and even if his handler were to mess up the triggering sequence that wouldn’t be an excuse for him to start disobeying—

The scene in front of him changes to one of the training rooms, his holo-self standing in a fighting stance against Josef, one of the newer Winter Soldiers. They fight, and the Asset grimaces at their ferocity before scowling at how his hair gets in the way while he’s sparring. Josef gets his holo-self into an armlock and he cries out as Josef wrenches his metal arm and smashes his hand into the joint.

He has just enough time to notice Stark wincing at the scene, before a holographic wall appears at one end of the room, and Josef kicks his holo-self hard enough to send him crashing into it and tumbling to the floor. Handler-Karpov materialises, standing impassively over him, his arms folded. “ _Очень хорошо, Иосиф_ ,” he says. _Very good, Josef._

The Asset stares, transfixed by the scene. A distant part of him knows that if he wanted to, he could try to manipulate it and change what happens, but he doesn’t want to yet. He doesn’t remember this scene, and he wants to know what happens before he does anything to it.

A technician steps forward to check on Josef and the Asset is abruptly reminded of the strange dream he’d had while he’d still been trying to figure out if his handler was also little-Steve. He casts his eyes around the scene, but he doesn’t see his handler.

Instead he watches as Josef’s rage overboils and he lashes out at the technician, smashing him to the ground with a snarl. A guard in full tactical gear flickers into view as he rushes forward to beat Josef back into submission and the soldier doesn’t even flinch.

Emboldened, the other Winter Soldiers appear and stand up, turning their eyes to the technicians and guards around the room. Beside his holo-self, Handler-Karpov’s confidence crumbles and he pulls out his gun. “ _Солдат, вытащи меня отсюда!_ ” He snaps, aiming at both his holo-self and the other soldiers. _Soldier, get me out of here!_

His holo-self complies, glaring murderously and dragging Handler-Karpov away from the carnage as the Winter Soldiers begin to tear apart the ranks of guards and technicians. Karpov holds his gun up uselessly, following almost meekly as his holo-self fights off one of the Winter Soldiers and pulls Karpov into one of the nearby cells, shutting the door and standing in front of him defensively.

The Winter Soldiers continue to fight, seemingly more for the thrill of bloodlust rather than for any particular goal, and they glare at him through the bars as Handler-Karpov speaks frantically into his radio.

The Asset watches as it takes a whole squad of soldiers armed with tranq guns and shock batons to finally subdue the raging Winter Soldiers. Once down, guards dressed in black rush into the room and begin to hogtie the fallen soldiers, while behind his holo-self, Karpov begins to relax.

He breathes out and holsters his gun, looking over at his holo-self. He clicks his tongue. “ _Sputn—”_

Stark curses and slams his hand down on a button on the computer console, killing the hologram as the Asset sways on his feet, stumbling a little as he fights against getting shutdown again. Stark curses again and runs a hand through his hair, before wincing and placing a hand on his chest.

“That was real?” he says as the Asset gives his head a shake, blinking a little at the strange feeling of _almost_ being triggered. He looks up at Stark and the man is looking rather pale. “That was real, right?” he says again. “Those were Hydra’s Winter Soldiers they made from the serum?”

The Asset reaches up to pull off his glasses and nods, his mind spinning at what he’d just seen. “Yes,” he says quietly. “Those are Hydra’s Winter Soldiers.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed Bucky’s first full session with the BARF tech! They had a bit of a close call, and some interesting results.
> 
> Also, Tony got his arc reactor removed and will have a six-week recovery now, and now they have confirmation on Hydra’s Winter Soldiers, which obviously has some concerning implications.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset remember Siberia.

The Winter Soldiers are a problem, one Stark has to bring up to the rest of the Avengers.

“Winter Soldiers, as in, plural?” Barton asks, after Stark had gathered them all in the meeting room and begun to explain what he’d seen.

Stark nods and taps his fingers on the table in front of him. “Steve and I knew that Hydra had tried to make more Winter Soldiers,” he says before flicking his eyes up to the Asset and glancing away. “We didn’t know what happened to them after though. They’re barely mentioned in the file Hydra gave us, so we’d kind of hoped they’d died with the USSR or something.”

Wilson shifts in his seat and folds his arms. “Do we know for sure what happened to them though?” he asks. “You said you saw them fight and get subdued. What happened after that? And why doesn’t Hydra have a whole army of them?”

The table falls silent for a moment before the Asset realises that they are all more or less looking at him.

“Bucky,” his handler turns to him, looking slightly awkward. “I know you might not remember but… do you know anything about what happened to the other Winter Soldiers?”

The Asset swallows and furls his brow, focusing down on his clasped hands on the table as he tries to pull up the memory his handler wants. He hadn’t been able to remember much about the other Winter Soldiers until the BARF tech had triggered it for him, but now he thinks he might be able to come up with something if he just thinks hard enough.

The hazy image of the recalibration chamber comes to mind, the chair sitting ominously in the middle of the room with… with pods… circling the edges. He blinks. Cryochambers. That’s what they are. Six of them, one for each…

He looks up and breathes in, trying to prepare himself. “Resistance is unacceptable,” he explains, referencing the brief rebellion of the other Winter Soldiers. “Handler-Karpov deemed the Winter Soldiers too volatile to be calibrated and operated. The Winter Soldiers were placed into cryofreeze until a more effective method of control could be found.” He pauses and frowns slightly. “The Asset was transferred to America. No further information is known.”

His handler swallows and nods before looking over at the other Avengers. “It’s possible that our guess about the fall of the USSR might not be too far off,” he says. “If the other Winter Soldiers were put in cryofreeze to be dealt with later, but then the program was shut down…”

“Then they could still be there,” Stark finishes. “Waiting until someone at Hydra who knows about them is desperate enough to break them out again.”

Romanoff leans back in her seat and gives them all a look. “I don’t know about you…” she says slowly. “But I imagine we’ve been making Hydra rather desperate lately.” A heavy silence falls over the table as the implications of her statement sinks in.

It’s decided that the Siberian base is the next major target for the Avengers, and the atmosphere in the Tower takes on a more somber tone as they begin to plan their attack. The Siberian base is a bigger, and more dangerous target than any other base they’ve raided, besides the Sokovian one, and the Asset finds his brain being picked over for every scrap of information he can offer on it.

“Do you think you can draw us a floorplan?” his handler asks as they sit in the meeting room, angling a piece of paper and a pen towards him. “Anything you can remember would be helpful.”

The Asset swallows and nods, reaching for the offered pen with his left hand and pulling the paper closer to himself with his right. A part of him feels a little strange sharing his knowledge with the Avengers because it’s akin to admitting that he remembers things beyond his programming… but that really doesn’t seem to be a problem with them.

Not only do they not seem to care if he remembers, but they are actually actively _helping_ him remember stuff with the BARF technology so… so he’s beginning to think that his memory/malfunctions aren’t so bad, at least, not with the Avengers. Either way, he still doesn’t remember _much_ about his time in the Siberian base. Giving him a tour of the base hadn’t exactly been Hydra’s top priority. But he does his best to outline the areas he knows for the team.

He draws a large square to represent the base, and marks all the entrances and exits that he knows, before beginning to separate off sections into hallways and rooms, leaving a large space in the middle open. He taps the open space and looks up at the team sitting around the table.

“This is the maintenance and recalibration room,” he explains before drawing a square to represent his chair and six circles to represent the cryochamber pods. He draws a star next to one of the cryochambers. “This cryochamber is mine,” he says, before pointing at the other chambers. “These contain the other Winter Soldiers.”

He labels the recalibration chair before tapping the reinforced door leading outside. “Steel and concrete,” he says shortly. “Opened only with a code in a separate room.” He sketches out the small guardroom adjacent to the recalibration room before furling his eyebrows and scanning the rooms and hallways leading to the recalibration room.

“These…” He stars several rooms. “These are _zapreshcheno_ ,” he explains, frustratedly wracking his brain for a room he knows the purpose of, the grey halls of the base blurring together in his mind.

“They’re what?”

He looks up in surprise at Barton and his eyebrows draw together in confusion.

“Forbidden,” Romanoff cuts in, before flicking her eyes up to him. “You were speaking in Russian.”

He blinks, a little stunned, not having realised that he’d slipped into the other language. He castes a quick glance around the room, but no one seems overly upset by his mistake, so he goes back to the map in front of him.

He swallows and begins to tap on some of the smaller rooms. “These are holding cells,” he explains, his fingers tightening slightly on the pen in his hand. He pauses before adding a few larger rooms to the empty space at the end of the hallway. “These are training rooms,” he says, his brow furling as he tries to remember how many to draw. He hesitates for a moment before adding another smaller room beside the training rooms.

“This is an armory,” he says, the image of racks of guns and ammunition coming to mind. “ _Zapresh—_ Forbidden without a handler.” He flicks his eyes over the map for a moment, a blank space on the other side of the recalibration room seeming to stare at him.

He moves his hand over and portions out a hallway before hesitating over the individual rooms. “These…” He rests his pen on the paper and his eyes glaze over as he thinks, trying to remember what they are. Are they forbidden like the rooms by the holding cells or…?

He shivers and catches onto the image of dark rooms and hard floors and shackles and—

“These are correction cells,” he says tightly, drawing his right hand into his lap and keeping his eyes on the table. He swallows and tries to breathe in evenly, reminding himself that the discipline with Hydra had been a necessary part of training and that he won’t even be _going_ with the Avengers to Siberia, so it shouldn’t really matter to him what kinds of things had used to happen in those rooms—

— _they shove him in and darkens falls as they slam the door shut. He stumbles forward blindly, feeling his way a few feet to the far wall. His hand touches the rough surface and he sinks to the floor shivering, his hair wet and plastered to his forehead, drops of water dripping down his neck and into his collar._

_One of his guards today had decided that a cold shower might make him more open to their training and he crouches carefully, trying not to touch more of the cold stone of his cell than necessary, wincing as his clothes stick to him, and his fancy metal arm protests at the lowered temperatures._

_He hunches in on himself and closes his eyes, trying to ignore the pulsing, persistent pain throughout his body. They are very careful not to injure him enough to be useless, but the blasted serum makes it so that plenty of minor injuries can be dealt out without too much worry._

_Lucky him._

_He breathes in carefully, balancing his left arm on his knees to keep it from pulling on his shoulder, and reaching up with his right hand to scrub at his face, avoiding the growing bruise on his jaw. It hurts, but not enough to hinder him once food comes. He’s been here long enough now that he knows the routine. Food (if you can call it that) will be here in a few hours, and then he can try to rest and heal and prepare for another day. Today had been practising basic orders – things like stand here, or run in place, which seems simple enough until after about the third hour – which means tomorrow will be target practice._

_His stomach rolls and he ducks his head. That is one of his least favourite “training methods”. He can hit the targets. He’s_ good _at that, and he’d given in a while ago, finally aiming and shooting at their targets, because he’d decided it wasn’t a good enough hill to die on._

_And then they had brought in a live target._

_He closes his eyes and tries not to think of the figure he knows will be there tomorrow, bag over their head and arms tied behind their back, completely silent. He doesn’t know who it is, he doesn’t even know if it’s the same person every time. But he knows they will be there. Every time, waiting to be the last shot he takes._

_Twelve target boards and one live one. Every time now._

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve—_

_And then he doesn’t shoot._

_And then he gets in trouble._

_He shivers and hunches further in on himself. He_ hates _target-days, but he knows he can never take the final shot. That is very very important. He knows that if he gives in and takes the final shot, then he can_ never _come back from that._

 _He will shoot at the targets, but he will_ not _shoot at—_

_He blinks._

_He blinks again and stares blankly ahead of himself, his mouth hanging half open as a lightbulb suddenly dawns. He can’t believe he hadn’t realised it— He can’t believe he’d never even thought—_

_He shoves away the uncomfortable thought of how far Hydra has managed to push and break him down because— because they give him a gun now. They give him a gun with thirteen bullets in it and he’d been focusing so hard on aiming at the targets and not_ missing _so that they would just_ leave him alone _that he hadn’t even noticed that they’d_ given him a gun _with_ thirteen bullets. 

_He sucks in a breath and shivers, water dripping from his hair into his eye as he chews over his most recent revelation. Thirteen bullets…_

_It's a long shot but… but if it hadn’t occurred to_ him _to use his gun against Hydra before, then hopefully… hopefully his guards will be similarly at ease with the routine he’s fallen into._

_***_

_His clothes are still slightly damp by the time they pull him out the next day and begin leading him down to the training room. His shoes squeak on the floor as he keeps his head bowed and follows along passively, internally trying to calm his nerves._

If I fail at least I tried, _he thinks to himself as he steps into the training room and accepts the handgun one of the guards offers him. He goes through the motions of loading and arming it before stepping up to the targeting line, his eyes skittering over the hunched figure kneeling at the end of the row, their grey prison uniform hanging loosely off their body and matching his own._

_He swallows and mentally takes a tally of all the men in the room as he raises his gun and aims at the first target board. There are four guards with him in the room and more agents behind the viewing glass, but if he acts fast enough, he might be able to catch them off guard._

_He breathes in deeply and widens his stance, letting his eyes unfocus from the first target and become aware of the men behind him._

Here goes nothing _._

_He pivots and takes out the first two men before anyone even has time to blink. The man by the door lets out a shout of surprise, but he too is dead before he can even reach for his thigh holster. The fourth man rushes at him, forcing him to duck the arc of his shock baton, but his stance is rock solid as he takes aim and fires his next shot, squarely into the man’s neck._

_The man goes down with a ragged sputter, and he pauses just long enough to sweep up his door-key and sidearm, before leaping forward to let himself out of the training room. There are more agents in the hallway, all armed with shock batons, and it takes another five bullets before he’s free to sprint down the hall, relying on his shaky mental map of the facility to get him out._

_An alarm starts ringing, and he almost runs right into another guard as he skids around the corner, heading for the main chamber. The man is furious, but he has the advantage. They aren’t shooting to kill, and he has no such reservations. The guard falls and he steps around him, his heart pounding a deafening rhythm in his ears and his breath coming in short gasps as he breaks into a sprint, the shouting of guards and agents echoing behind him. He can’t really understand them, because everything is in bloody Russian here, but he gets the gist._

_He stumbles and slips as he catches sight of the entrance to the main chamber, and a tranquilizer dart bounces off the wall where he’d just been. He ducks and rolls into the large room, firing at the guards that tries to intercept him. His first gun is empty, and he discards it, pulling out his other one as, in front of him, the doors leading out of the room – giant cement things controlled by a separate console – begin to swing closed._

_He lets out an animal cry of desperation as he sprints towards the door, the shouts of the guards and blaring alarms blending together in his ears as he moves. If he can just make it through the doors— if he can just make it through, then he can— then he can—_

_He doesn’t make it._

_The doors slam shut with a final thud that echoes throughout the room, forcing him to skid to a halt, inches away from freedom. He slams his metal fist into the concrete with a cry of frustration, and pain lances up his arm and into his shoulder, sparking a headache behind his eyes. The next second, the headache is the least of his problems as pain explodes in his right shoulder, the joint jerking forward as an agent finally manages to catch him with a tranquilizer dart._

_He grunts and turns, firing desperately at them, his heart in his throat as he takes in the enclosing guards. He fires off a few more rounds and stumbles before catching himself and breaking off towards a separate hallway, burying a bullet into the stomach of the guard who tries to intercept him. The hall doesn’t lead outside. Of that he’s pretty sure, but he’s not about to go down without a fight._

_His vision blurs and he grits his teeth, reaching up to yank out the tranquilizer dart and ducking away from a few more. Hydra has yet to come up with something that can drop him completely, and it still takes a few minutes to take effect, but he knows he’s done for now. Already he can feel himself beginning to lose focus as he stumbles down the hall, his ears ringing as he sucks in a frantic lungful of air._

_He ducks another dart and manages to drag himself into one of the side rooms, his vision spinning. The light flicks on automatically and he squints as he scans the small storage room, shelves of files leading away from him. The sound of pounding feet outside prompts him to lurch towards the back of the room, and he slides down beside a filing cabinet, his back pressed against the wall as he balances his stolen gun on his knees, aiming at the doorway._

_He checks his remaining ammunition with shaking hands and blinks away a wave of dizziness._

_Two bullets left._

_He swallows, breathing heavily as he readjusts his grip and squints at the doorway. He’s proud to say that he nails the first guard in the head before four more rush into the room, their riot shields preventing him from aiming at anything vital._

_Someone chuckles at him, and he darts his head up to see a blond man in a green uniform enter the room, his posture a picture of confidence as he places his hands in his pockets and makes his way through the wall of guards._

_His hands tighten on the gun and he glares at the man, hate rolling through his gut as he fights against his dimming vision. At the moment, he can’t pull up the man’s name, but he knows he’s the one in charge of this whole operation, and that he’d approved more than one of his ‘punishments’._

_“Are you finished with this little rebellion then?” the man mocks in accented English._

_He flexes his jaw and doesn’t say anything, readjusting his aim a little as the man steps closer._

_“What was your plan exactly, hmm?” he asks, leaning forward, his hands still in his pockets. “What did you think you would do if you got out?” He raises an eyebrow. “This base is surrounded by miles of frozen tundra, Sergeant. There is nowhere for you to go.”_

_He rests his head back against the wall behind him and fights to keep his eyes open, tightening his grip on his gun. “Better that than_ here _,” he pants and fires—directly at the man’s head.—_

“Bucky?”

He flinches, jerking away as he comes back to reality and sucks in a breath, his heart pounding and his eyes squeezing shut as his head spins nauseatingly.

“Hey there.”

He blinks and shakes his head as he looks up and becomes aware of Wilson crouching a few feet in front of his chair, the other Avengers a blurry mass further back in the room. There’s a ringing in his ears. Wilson smiles gently at him.

“Hey,” he says soothingly. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.” The Asset sucks in another breath and tries to blink his eyes into better focus. For some reason it’s hard to concentrate on Wilson. “Bucky.” He can’t seem to concentrate on much, actually, even his own limbs feeling far away as he tries to keep his gaze on Wilson. “I think you might be having something called a flashback,” he tells him. The Asset swallows. His throat is dry.

“You’re safe now,” Wilson tells him again in the same even tone. “You’re in Avengers Tower. No one is going to hurt you.” The Asset licks his lips. Wilson flicks his eyes over him. “Can you try some breaths for me?” he asks, breathing in slowly, his chest puffing out steadily. The Asset tries to copy, his eyes focused on the up and down motions of Wilson’s shoulders. “Good job,” Wilson tells him. “Can you do some more?”

They breathe in again, and the Asset slowly becomes aware of a shaking in his muscles and a tightness in his chest. As he breathes his vision gradually begins to cooperate with him and focus more squarely on the man crouched in front of him. Wilson offers him a warm smile. “You’re doing great,” he tells him, his praise mixing with the even breaths to help calm him down. “You think you can name something in this room for me?”

The Asset darts his eyes around the room and eventually manages to focus down in front of him, his eyes feeling tired and strained. “Table,” he rasps out, breathing in deeply again.

Wilson nods, his hands resting non-threateningly on his knees. “Good,” he says. “Can you tell me something that’s on that table?”

He scans the table, his eyes catching on the map he’d drawn. It’s flipped over now, for some reason, the back side blank and empty. “Paper,” he manages, turning back to Wilson.

Wilson nods again and breathes in and out with him. “What else do you see?”

He looks back over and becomes aware of his metal hand resting on the table, the pen it had been holding now crushed and leaking out onto the surface. He shifts and relaxes his hand, bits of plastic falling free and landing with a light clatter onto the table.

“Pen,” he looks back at Wilson, his pulse beginning to even out a little, his heart no longer threatening to beat out of his chest as he breathes. “Sorry.”

Wilson’s mouth quirks up. “That’s okay,” he says gently. “We have lots of pens.” He flicks his eyes over him again, and sits up slowly. “Now, how ‘bout we take a break, yeah?”

They take a break, and his handler leads him back to their room, careful to keep a margin of distance between them. Ordinarily, the Asset might worry that he’d managed to upset his handler in order to be subject to this kind of treatment, but right now he finds himself more than a little grateful for the extra space.

“I’ll get you some water,” his handler tells him as they arrive in the room and the Asset can’t help wondering how he’d managed to guess how dry his throat is currently. He follows slowly into the kitchen, sitting down at his usual chair as his handler gets a glass and fills it for him. He fills one for himself as well and takes a sip from it as he hands over the other glass.

The Asset’s hands shake slightly as he accepts it and drinks eagerly, his eyes closing as the water washes easily down his throat and his stomach begins to settle. He breathes in and out again. The breathing is important.

“How are you doing?” his handler asks, his voice soft, almost apprehensive, and the Asset doesn’t know how to respond. He’d just had a major memory/malfunction, and it had actually interfered with his work as the Asset, which generally isn’t acceptable.

“I am functional,” he tells him eventually, and his handler scans him for a moment, his finger tapping on his glass.

“Do you know what a flashback is?” he asks after a moment, the unexpected topic throwing the Asset off guard. He slowly shakes his head, his eyes on his handler.

Handler-Steve’s lips press up in a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s okay,” he says, his gaze focusing onto the Asset’s shoulder. “A flashback is like reliving a vivid memory,” he explains, his hand tight on his glass. “It can often feel like you’re re-experiencing a traumatic event all over again.” He blinks and looks off towards the living room. “There’s nothing to be ashamed about having a flashback,” he says after a moment, his finger tapping against his glass again as he looks back at him. “Apparently focusing on the present and your five senses can help to cope with flashbacks.”

The Asset nods again, trying to digest what he’s hearing. It sounds like… it sounds like the memory/malfunctions he has are… kind of like flashbacks. He flicks his eyes over his handler and finds it very significant that he hadn't said that having flashbacks is _wrong_. He’d suggested ways to deal with them, but he hadn’t implied that the Asset is in trouble for _having_ them.

He takes another sip from his glass, and his handler drains his own, setting it down and moving off towards the living room. “I’m going to put some music on,” he says, and the Asset listens as his handler goes over to the record player and puts something in. A soft gentle tune begins to fill the air and the Asset finds himself beginning to relax, his body feeling drained as the events of the day catch up to him.

Eventually he leaves his glass and pushes himself up to make his way to the couch, finding his handler sitting down, his knees up and his sketchbook in his lap. The Asset sits down as well and he leans his head back, closing his eyes as he breathes in slowly, letting the music drift over him.

Today had definitely been the longest memory/malfunction – flashback that he had ever gotten. He doesn’t exactly know what to do with it. He doesn’t even know what it _means_ exactly (although he had been fighting Hydra, that much is clear), but he’s pretty sure it had been triggered by the Siberian mission.

A part of him is glad now, that his handler isn’t allowing him to go on this mission, but the rest of him is anxious for his handler’s safety. He is supposed to _protect_ his handler, but he can’t do that if he’s stuck back in America, and he doesn’t know what is going to _happen_ on this mission.

 _Logically_ , if all goes well, Hydra won’t have reactivated the Winter Soldiers yet and all the Avengers will need to do is neutralise them, which shouldn’t be hard given how they are all frozen helpless in cryochambers—

He opens his eyes as a terrifying thought crosses his mind and he turns his head to look at his handler, his mind flashing back through all the kind gestures he had given him. His handler is _good_ , kind enough to take his asset and give him good food and warm blankets and hand drawn pictures— kind-hearted enough to give him orders to _live,_ like a person, rather than exist simply as a weapon, and smile at him when he tries new things and—

And probably good enough to decide that killing helpless soldiers in sleeping pods isn’t _right._

His breath catches and his handler darts his eyes up to him, his hand stilling on his sketchbook. “Bucky?” he asks cautiously, sitting up slowly on the couch and setting the book to the side. “You okay?”

The Asset sits up as well, breathing carefully and swallowing as he tries to gather his thoughts. He nods at his handler because he’s busy looking concerned, and pulls his hands into his lap, shifting a little in discomfort.

“You will go to find the Winter Soldiers in Siberia,” he says, and his handler nods slowly, his brows furling slightly in confusion. The Asset tightens his hands in his lap and he fights to keep from fidgeting. “It is dangerous,” he says quickly. “You have to kill the Winter Soldiers. You cannot wake them up.”

He places his hands on his knees and leans forward, his voice growing more urgent as he rushes to finish before his handler can say anything. “The Winter Soldiers will not— they are not the same as the Asset,” he tries to explain. “The Winter Soldiers will not follow the Avengers. They will not stand down. They will not change or— or watch movies or play games or make food— they will not follow orders on missions, they—” He swallows. “They will not avoid secondary casualties, if— if they escape, they will destroy everything. They are trained better than the Asset.”

His handler stares at him for a moment in silence, before looking back towards his sketchbook and swallowing. “I understand Bucky,” he says softly, his hands twisting together in his lap.

The Asset scans his handler and can only hope that he really does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really excited to share this chapter and Bucky’s flashback. It’s a really important one I think because it shows how he fought Hydra, and also because it was invasive enough that the Avengers were aware of it and could react to it.
> 
> On another note, I always thought that in CA:CW, the Russo’s took the easy way out of having Steve, Tony and Bucky either fight the Winter Soldiers or kill them in cold blood. Now, we don’t have a Zemo to kill the soldiers, and Steve will have to make that choice. It’s probably obvious that killing the Winter Soldiers is the wisest choice, but there’s something a little off-putting about the idea of killing people outside of a fight.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset is left (mostly) to his own devices.

The Asset gives they Avenger all the information he has on the Winter Soldiers and their Hydra history, and the Avengers continue in their preparations for the Siberian mission, solidifying their plans and gathering the needed supplies. He, of course, is not going, because he hasn’t yet figured out what he needs to do to be cleared for missions, and the morning before departure, his handler walks him through his absence protocols. “Tony will still be here in the tower,” he tells him after making sure the Asset is comfortable with food preparation and clean up. “If you need something you can always ask him or JARVIS for help.”

The Asset nods and clasps his hands behind his back, trying to project an air of confidence for his handler. He’s never had to care for himself like this before, but there’s no stopping his handler’s departure, so he might as well try to make it easier, even if the idea makes him nervous.

His handler flashes him a slightly strained smile before moving on to reiterate that he is free to wander the tower and that he should discuss with JARVIS if he wishes to go outside. The Asset nods again and his handler fiddles with his fingers. “Hopefully Hydra hasn’t activated the Winter Soldiers yet,” he tells him. “We’ll still be gone for a few days… but the mission should be pretty simple that way.”

His handler turns to lead him up to the common room, where Stark is waiting to see the rest of the Avengers off, and the Asset has to bite back the urge to remind his handler once again that he must not give the Winter Soldiers a chance to escape and fight him.

 _Do not let them out of the cryochambers,_ he thinks desperately. _Kill them while you still have the chance._

He tightens his hands behind his back and presses his lips together as the Avengers say their final goodbyes and load onto the waiting quinjet, dust flying around the landing pad as the ship’s engines ignite and they lift off, flying into the rising sun.

Beside him, Stark coughs and rubs his chest, taking a sip from his coffee mug, his eyes still on the horizon. “Well,” he says, swirling his mug a little and turning back towards the elevator. “I’m heading down to the lab. See you later.”

The Asset watches him leave and the room suddenly feels overly quiet as the elevators ding closed. He swallows and looks around the common room, unsure what to do with himself now that he’s alone. He unclasps his hands and swings his arms a little, trying to get used to the feeling.

It’s not the first time he’s been alone. His handler has left him alone to go to his doctor’s appointments, and more than once the Asset has found himself alone in between his activities with the other Avengers and his handler’s return… But this time feels different.

He’s used to doing things now, whether with his handler or with the other Avengers, but most of the time they are the ones to introduce a prospective activity. He generally just goes along with whatever they offer, so it feels a little weird having to come up with something himself.

Eventually, he decides to make his way down to the gym and practice his archery. He’d been improving steadily since Barton had first started to teach him, and he’s proud to say that his arrows now land on the target over 90 percent of the time. As he’d improved, Barton had introduced more complicated targets and stances, seemingly enjoying himself as he’d shown him tricks and rolls to ‘spice up his practice’.

He practices in the gym until his fingers start getting sore (thanks to his handler, he’s distinctly aware of the need to pace oneself during a workout, regardless of any serum enhancements.) He still has a little bit until lunchtime, but while putting away his archery equipment and checking everything over, he’s struck with the sudden realisation that he hasn’t done any maintenance on his _own_ weapons in quite some time.

The idea feels almost… illegal, given how with Hydra he was never to arm himself without permission from his handler… but here the Avengers don’t seem as worried about it. His handler had given him full range of the gym and the training weapons it has to offer, and he had never mentioned anything about any rules surrounding weapons at all.

He presses his lips together for a moment before nodding determinedly to himself and turning to make his way back to his room. His weapons need to be maintained if they are to remain useful. That is a fact. And part of him is pretty sure that his handler will never give him explicit permission to do so, simply because it will never occur to him that his asset might _need_ it.

If he wants to maintain his weapons, he’s going to have to do it himself, without checking with his handler first.

Strangely enough, he finds that the idea doesn’t frighten him as much as it once would.

When he gets to his room, he pulls a dirty sheet from the laundry and spreads it out on the floor beside his dresser, before pulling open all the drawers and retrieving the various weapons he has stashed inside. He ends up getting a rag from the kitchen (for half-a-second he expects to reach into his pocket to find a handkerchief of all things, but of course he doesn’t have one) and he spends the rest of the time before lunch checking over his knives and guns, finding the rhythmic work rather enjoyable.

Lunchtime is when things really start getting interesting. He’s cooked enough times with Wilson now, that he's pretty confident in his skills, but this will be the first time that he’s ever planned and executed a meal all by himself.

He goes to the kitchen and pulls open the fridge to see what kind of food is available. He frowns a little at the cold air – only to frown a little deeper because he’s pretty certain he now knows why _he_ doesn’t like cold… but he’s noticed that Handler-Steve doesn’t like cold _either_ , and _that_ is more of a mystery.

After a moment he gives his head a shake and focuses back on the contents of the fridge. It really isn’t any of his business the kinds of things his handler does or doesn’t like, and he needs to figure out what kind of food he’s going to be eating, so he needs to pay attention.

He spots a packet of bacon on the middle shelf and he sees a jar of mayonnaise on the condiments shelf. A smile widens on his face and he reaches for both items, letting the fridge door swing shut behind him as he turns towards the stove. Wilson isn’t here to look at him strangely over his food choices, and he’s about to take full advantage of that.

As he makes the sandwiches, JARVIS helpfully informs him that he still needs something else to supplement his required calories, so he ends up making a pot of soup too, and by the end of it, he has a full meal laid out, one that he’d made completely by himself. And, it might just be his imagination, but he thinks it might even taste a little better than usual.

After he cleans up both the dishes and his weapon stash, he finds that he still has a lot of free time, and he stands in the living room, looking around, trying to find something to do. He wonders what on earth people usually do to occupy their time, everybody always seems to be doing _something_ …

His eyes land on the TV for a moment before he discards that option. He’s not against watching TV per se, but he really has no idea where to even _start_ with it. Everyone else already seems to have a list of movies and TV shows which they enjoy, and he really doesn’t have that. If he gets really desperate, he supposes he could try asking JARVIS, but he’s not sure the computer would be able to help in that situation.

Instead his eyes drift to his handler’s bookshelf and he takes a step forward, his eyes focusing on the book he had looked at last time. _The Hobbit,_ it reads, and he pulls it off of the shelf. He darts his eyes around the room for a moment before feeling silly. There’s no one here to stop him from reading the book (no one to stop him from doing _anything_ really) and he gets a feeling that even if JARVIS were to tell his handler about it, Handler-Steve wouldn’t be all that bothered.

And besides. His handler isn’t _here._

A small thrill of excitement shoots up in his stomach as he makes his decision and turns to move back to the couch, pausing only long enough to turn on the record player before settling down and opening the book to the first page.

 _In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit,_ it reads, and he finds himself beginning to relax, music playing calmly in the background. _Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort._

He reads until suppertime, only resurfacing once JARVIS reminds him that he needs to eat again. He blinks in surprise, having almost forgotten about his surroundings, before setting the book aside and getting up to find something else to eat.

Supper goes smoothly enough and it’s his day to take a shower, so he does that before beginning to set out his bedding. It’s still a little early to be going to sleep, but he’s already almost finished with his book, so he figures he might as well settle in and read it until nightfall.

It’s… probably a good thing that his serum makes it easier to see in the dark because by the time he sets the book aside, the sun is setting. JARVIS hadn’t turned the lights up to match the growing darkness and he can almost _feel_ the AI’s passive disapproval at his sleep schedule.

He huffs and cracks a smile at the ceiling before pulling his blanket up to his shoulders and turning over, intent on going to sleep.

_He’s struggling as the two guards drag him down the hall, but everything feels sluggish and uncoordinated, his jerky attempts to get free seeming to move in slow motion. One of the guards snarls something at him but his words sound like they’re being spoken under water and he can’t understand them at all. His vision swims and he catches sight of what looks like a tall metal coffin standing at the end of the hall, the lights glinting off of it ominously._

_His eyes slip closed for a second before he forces them open again and sucks in a breath. He can’t seem to regulate his breathing very well, and he sags, gasping for air and trying not to fall over, as one of the guards reaches over to pull open the metal coffin._

_“If you’re going to be difficult,” he spits at him, tugging on his arm. “Then we’ll just have to put you away until we come up with something better.”_

_The Asset opens his mouth to ask what he means, or maybe to protest, but he doesn’t get to do either because the guards manhandle him into the coffin and shut the door, closing him into the tiny space. His chest squeezes and he lifts his hand— to push open the door, to beat it down, to—_

_But a sudden aching cold washes over him and his vision whites out._

_*_

_His vision glitches and he wakes, coughing and shivering and confused, but his guards don’t give him any time to adjust to suddenly being able to breathe again. Instead they grab his arms and begin to drag him back down the hall, his feet slipping uselessly against the floor as they enter the main chamber._

_He raises his head as they pull him inside and there’s a great metal chair in the center of the room that part of him is certain hadn’t been there before. He catches sight of the clamps on the arms and legs of the chair and his breathing stutters, his stomach dropping as he begins to pull against his captors with renewed vigor._

_Something about that chair is dangerous— something about it is_ very bad.

_His efforts do nothing though, and his reaction time still seems slow as they jerk him over to the monstrous thing and begin strapping him down. His breathing accelerates as something hums around him and his brain is so muddled that he can’t understand what is being said to him, his eyes fixed uncomprehendingly on the moving mouth of his guard. Something swings around to position itself over his eye and then—_

_And then he’s in the training room, practicing the same moves – with those same words – over and over again and trying to remember the right words in the right language and flinching away when he angers his handler and—_

_And then they stand him in front of a line of targets, pressing a pistol into his hand. The metal is cold against his fingers and he knows instinctively that there is only one bullet inside._

_“Shoot the target, Soldier,” his handler tells him, his eyes sharp and his hand resting firmly on his own gun._

_The Asset lifts his gun and becomes aware of his target. The small figure is kneeling hunched on the floor, a bag over their head, obscuring their face. The Asset watches as the man’s narrow shoulders move up and down as he breathes._

_He aims… and he hesitates._

_Something about this is very important. Something about it—_

_He watches the person’s shoulders shake as he lets out a particularly shuddery breath, and he swallows. The breathing is… important. He watches the shoulders move again, his eyes flicking over the figure. The man is wearing a beige jacket that is slightly too big for him and the one shoulder is scuffed, like— like, something—_

_One of the guards cracks the leather strap in his hand and the Asset flinches, his own breath stuttering as he cringes away._

_“Shoot. The target, Soldier.”_

_He nods his head automatically and straightens, his heart pounding as he raises his gun and sets his sights. The man’s shoulders move up and down again and he grits his teeth. He has… an order. He has an order from his handler, and he’s supposed to— His finger moves to the trigger and he breathes in._

He wakes with tears wet on his face and he draws in a long shuddery breath, his hands shaking where they grip at his blanket. He lets out a slow breath that sounds more like a whimper than he’d been hoping for, and he lifts one hand up to wipe at his face, trying to blink away the image of the living target from his mind.

He shot the target. He knows he did.

His breath bursts out in another half-sob and he sits up, trying to breathe in evenly and wiping at his face again. His chest squeezes and he tries to gather himself so that he can get up from the couch and go over to his dresser to write down his dream, but he ends up falling back, his breath tight and strained in his lungs.

He hunches over, pressing his palms into his eye sockets and sucking in a breath. The metal of his left hand is cold against his face and he’s shaking, the trembling seeming to only get worse the more he tries to control it.

The image of the kneeling target flashes in his brain again and he cringes away, dragging in another breath. The image clashes with the one from his previous flashback and he no longer knows which one is more accurate. He doesn’t know how much of his dream had been truth and how much of it fiction, but he knows he had shot the target.

His breath catches and tears well up against his hands. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to get himself under control. He knows he shouldn’t be as upset as he is. He had been following orders, that is what he is _supposed_ to do— but he— but he hadn’t _wanted_ to.

He sits up and swipes frustratedly at his face, suddenly glad that his handler isn’t here at the moment. He doesn’t think he’d be able to explain himself if he were. He sucks in a shaky breath, pressing his hands into his knees and breathing out slowly, gritting his teeth as he tries to calm down.

“Sergeant Barnes?” He jumps and a strangled noise catches in his throat as his hands turn into claws on his knees and he jerks his head up to look at the ceiling, his heart pounding loud in his ears. “My apologies, Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS says, his tone softening, and the Asset breathes in through his nose, clutching at his pants as he works on relaxing again. “I was only intending to inquire if you required any assistance,” JARVIS explains.

“I don’t—” He drags in a ragged breath. “I don’t know,” he admits as his hands continue to shake and a lingering tightness in his throat threatens further tears.

JARVIS is silent for a moment before speaking up again. “In my experience, Sergeant,” he says finally. “Those waking from nightmares often find it beneficial to focus on their present circumstances and senses. If you wish, I could put on Captain Rogers’ music and recite to you the latest news events.”

The Asset nods slowly, reaching up with his right hand to wipe his face again and trying to relax enough to settle back onto the couch. JARVIS puts on one of the songs from his handler’s playlist, and the first soft notes of a piano begin to play as JARVIS begins to list off the most recent current events, facts about Presidents and weather anomalies and celebrity gossip that the Asset hadn’t bothered to worry about, let alone tried to keep up with, for a long time.

He finds himself beginning to settle down as he zones out to the essentially useless information. He doesn’t need to pay attention to the latest scandal involving a newly elected senator or keep in mind the strange baby name chosen by a singer, he can just… listen.

Eventually, his hands stop shaking, and they’re steady enough for him to stand up and brew himself a cup of tea, carefully following JARVIS’ instructions as he fills the kettle and pours, the heat from the cup helping to warm up more than just his hands.

oOo

The dream is still on his mind the next day and he takes his book (a new one called _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , which JARVIS tells him comes after _The Hobbit_ ) and packs himself up to the common room, needing to be away from his room for a little while.

It’s harder to focus on his book then it had been before and he’s only a few chapters in by the time Stark reappears in the common room, an empty coffee mug in hand. His eyes flicker over to the couch and scan the Asset for a moment before seeming to shrug off his presence and head for the coffee machine in the kitchen, muttering something deprecating about ‘decaf’ and ‘heart surgery’ under his breath.

“Has Cap and the team touched base yet?” he asks as he waits for the machine to finish up, and the Asset turns to look at him, his brow furling a little in confusion. He’s pretty sure JARVIS would have told either of them if Handler-Steve had contacted the tower, so he’s not exactly sure why Stark seems to want to ask _him_ instead.

Not that he _minds_ really, he hasn’t spoken to anyone besides JARVIS since yesterday, and, he imagines Stark is probably in the same boat, so maybe it isn’t that strange. Either way, he simply shakes his head (before wondering if maybe he should have responded verbally, since, that is kind of the point of human interaction.)

Stark nods right back at him and turns to stare at his coffee machine and the Asset returns to not reading his book, his mind now preoccupied with thoughts of his handler. He can’t help worrying that Handler-Steve won’t take his advice about the Winter Soldiers. He’s pretty sure at this point that his handler, and maybe the Avengers in general, don’t kill people in cold blood very often. (Romanoff might be the odd one out in that situation, but he doubts that even she is extremely cold-blooded when working with the Avengers.)

In his handler’s case…

He remembers the tired expression he’d seen on his handler’s face in one of his flashbacks – his handler sitting emptily by a tree and staring off into the distance. He swallows and his hands tighten on his book. He… gets the feeling that his handler will do what needs to be done but… but he doesn’t want to have to see that look ever again.

A part of him feels like he should have gone on the mission after all, killed the Winter Soldiers himself so that his handler won’t have to bear the burden of that decision himself. He should be the one to protect his handler from having to look like that again—

— _He slings his bookbag higher on his shoulder and kicks a rock ahead of himself on the ground before ducking his head and scanning the depths of an alley as he passes, his eyes skating over the ragged bricks and littered trash. School had let out a while ago and he’d had rugby practice, so_ theoretically _Steve should already be home, but it never hurts to check, seeing as he finds him in_ some _sort of scuffle often enough—_

_—He straightens his uniform and breathes in, trying to calm his nerves as he walks down the street. Steve had promised to meet him at the cinema for his last night and he doesn’t want to ruin it by being a downer–_

_He stops up short as he passes an alley and hears a familiar sound within. He sighs, and a genuine, although exasperated smile twitches on his lips as he shakes his head, his eyes turning to the brick walls beside him._

_“Oh for crying out loud,” he mumbles almost fondly, before ducking into the alley. A spark of anger flows through him as he comes in time to see Steve get decked by a man almost twice his size and crumple to the ground. “Hey!” He shouts, grabbing the man’s arm. “Pick on someone your own size!”—_

“Hey Barnes?”

He jerks and blinks, more in surprise than anything else, and becomes aware of Stark standing a few feet away from the couch, a steaming mug in his hand and a skeptical look on his face. “You good?” he asks, taking a sip from his mug and shifting his stance.

The Asset swallows and looks away, fiddling with the pages of his book. He is, in the most immediate sense, fine. The latest flashback hadn’t been distressing or dangerous but he’s still… he’s still worried over his handler and conflicted over the dream he’d had last night.

He looks back over at Stark and thumbs the edge of his book, flipping through the pages as he chews on his words. “Handler-Steve will have to kill the Winter Soldiers,” he says finally, looking up to meet Stark’s eyes for a moment before looking away again.

Stark seems to blink at him in surprise before shifting uneasily on his feet, sipping his coffee. “Yeah. I guess,” he says after a moment.

The Asset’s mouth twists, and he looks down at his book, his free hand tapping against his leg. “He won’t want to,” he mumbles, his finger tapping faster. “He doesn’t want to kill people I don’t think—” He looks back up at Stark, something tight in his chest. “He hasn’t sent me on any missions,” he blurts. “But it wasn’t _supposed_ to be bad.”

Stark stares at him, his cup a few inches away from his mouth, looking lost. “What?” he asks finally, his eyes flicking over him.

The Asset thumbs through the book pages again, the sound of the flipping pages filling the room as he tries to figure out what he’s trying to say. He doesn’t know why exactly he’s expressing this to _Stark_ , of all the Avengers he knows him the least… but maybe that’s the point. He’s not sure he would be able to say any of this to his handler without overthinking.

“Handler-Steve doesn’t like killing,” he says quietly, his eyes on his book. “But he has to, for missions sometimes.” He taps restlessly on his book. “But he’ll get—” He thumbs the book’s pages. “He’ll get _upset_ about it. Even if he _had_ to. Even if it wasn’t _bad_.”

He fights the inexplicable urge to draw his knees up to his chest and continues to stare at his book. Stark’s presence is almost inconsequential at this point, his mind whirling as he tries to untangle his thoughts.

“Handler-Steve doesn’t like killing on missions and he’s my handler and he hasn’t sent _me_ on any mission,” he says in a rush, his fingers once again tapping against the cover of the book. He looks up at Stark, conflicted. “But it wasn’t— it wasn’t _supposed_ to be bad.”

Stark swallows, his face a shade paler than usual. “You— you mean your other missions?”

The Asset nods and looks away, his one hand climbing up to tug on his hair for a second before dropping back down to his book, anxiety twisting around in his chest. “It wasn’t _supposed_ to be bad,” he repeats, staring blankly ahead of himself, his fingers fumbling with the book. “The Asset is supposed to follow orders but—” His right hand is shaking again, and he finds himself biting the inside of his cheek. “But it wasn’t _bad_ ,” he bursts out, his stomach clenching before he deflates a little. “But now— now I donno.”

In front of him, Stark’s hand seems to shake on his coffee cup a little and the Asset eyes him warily, wondering if he still needs to sit down and rest regularly from his surgery. Stark swallows a few times, something strange in his eye as he finally takes another sip from his mug.

“You… do you… remember all your missions?” he asks roughly, and the Asset looks away, thumbing the pages of his book automatically.

“No,” he says quietly, before going off in a rush. “I get flashes, an’ dreams sometimes, and I write them down but— but I don’t know how many…” He shrugs, continuing to stare ahead of himself. “I thought it was okay,” he admits softly. “I thought it was— Hydra said— But sometimes in the flashes I don’t want to—” His throat closes up. “An’ then when I wake up, I wish I hadn’t—” He breathes in shakily and blinks carefully, his eyes slightly damp as he fiddles with the book in his lap. “But I didn’t think it was _bad_ ,” he admits frustratedly, not looking up. “But now it _is._ ”

In front of him, Stark runs a restless hand through his hair, grumbling something and letting out a gust of air before shuffling over to collapse dramatically in a chair across from him, wincing slightly as the move jostles both his chest and his mug. He sits up. “Look—” He cuts himself off and rubs his over his hand mouth, mumbling something under his breath. “Look,” he says again. “I’m not the person to talk to about this. Sam or Steve are better, or even Natasha or Clint but—” He sits back and looks at the ceiling for a moment, his jaw flexing.

He looks back down. “Of course.” He lets out a long sigh and waves his free hand disparagingly. “None of them are _here_ right now, and I _did_ ask.” He looks like he might regret having asked.

The Asset eyes him, unsure what to expect, and Stark runs his hand through his hair again, his eyes a little distant. He swallows and brings his coffee automatically to his mouth, drinking instinctively as he continues to stare ahead of himself. After a second his eyes flick down and catch onto the Asset’s for a moment before flicking away to stare off to the side.

His free hand taps a steady rhythm onto the arm of his chair, and he drinks again from his coffee cup. “Okay look.” He looks up at the Asset. “You’re conflicted because— because you didn’t use to think you’re missions with Hydra were, well, bad, but now you’re starting to, right?”

The Asset nods slowly, his hands still on his book as he watches Stark. For his part, Stark seems to scan him for a moment before looking off to the side again. Silence falls for a moment before Stark brings his mug to his lips again. He sips slowly, his eyes clouded. Time stretches between them and the Asset sits frozen, looking at Stark.

Stark swallows. “Did you know I used to make weapons?” he asks finally, without changing his gaze, the unexpected topic change catching the Asset by surprise. He swallows and shrugs uncertainly in response. If he’d known about it, he can’t remember. Hydra hadn’t given him detailed intel on the Avengers in a while, since Handler-Steve had been supposed to take care of them. Stark nods distractedly at his response and his fingers tap against the arm of his chair.

“Some people had a problem with me building weapons, but I didn’t see anything wrong with it,” he explains quietly, his eyes distant. “My dad used to build weapons, right? So, when I took over the company, I just kept going with it. I figured _someone’s_ got to make sure we have a bigger stick than the other guys…”

He gives his head a shake and draws in a breath. “Long story short, I sort of got blown up.” His hand rubs at his chest for a moment. “And I ended up seeing the other side of my weapons. They were supposed to _help_ people, but they were also hurting people they weren’t supposed to hurt…”

He lets out a breath and runs a hand through his hair, seemingly frustrated. “Ah, geez, Judith is better at this,” he mumbles before finally turning to look at the Asset. “What I’m _saying_ is, sometimes…” His eyes grow distant again. “Sometimes… our outlook on things change, after we learn. I mean–” He waves a hand. “I guess that’s generally the _goal_ , but…” He shrugs carefully. “When we’ve made mistakes, we just… have to do our best to make up for it and live with it, I guess.”

He looks down awkwardly and takes a sip of his neglected coffee, mumbling. “At least, that’s what Judith would say. Probably.”

The Asset blinks. “Judith?” he asks, because Stark’s statements seem too big to touch right now.

Stark’s eyes widen in surprise for a moment and his shoulders straighten. “Ah, she's just–” He waves a hand. “She’s just someone I talk to,” he says quickly, shifting in his seat before standing up and draining his cup, not quite meeting the Asset’s gaze. He wipes his free hand on his pants before flashing the Asset a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes and turning away.

“I’m going to the lab,” he says shortly as he heads to the kitchen, reaching again for the coffee pot. The Asset watches him go, and narrows his eyes as he spots fine tremors running through the man’s hands. He nods slowly and sits in silence as Stark pours his coffee and retreats back to the elevator, his cup clutched almost defensively against his chest.

He doesn’t know what to think about his conversation with Stark. What he’d said makes sense, and it sort of matches something he vaguely remembers Barton saying to him when he’d first arrived at the tower, but he can’t help noticing how uncomfortable Stark had been while talking to him. Part of him worries that he’d managed to offend the man, although he doesn’t know how.

He decides to leave Stark alone for now, not that that’s very hard, given how the man spends most of his time in his lab anyways, and he spends the rest of his day alternating between reading his book and staring ahead of himself, thinking over the things Stark had said to him.

He comes out of his haze around suppertime, when JARVIS reminds him to eat and directs him to a ready-made lasagna in the freezer. He can’t remember if he’s ever had anything like it before, but the instructions are easy enough to follow and the end result tastes rather good.

He goes to bed that night and he doesn’t dream at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Bucky doesn’t get to go on the Siberian mission, but that does give him the chance to be a little more independent and interact with Tony.  
> Tony also gets to see Bucky’s dilemma as he tries to come to terms with his programming and how Hydra’s missions actually make him FEEL.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset learns something about himself... and Stark.

The next morning, he gets up, takes his medication and makes his usual oatmeal for breakfast, adding in blueberries and almonds for extra flavour. His handler often adds in extras like that, and he finds he rather enjoys it when blueberries come out. And…it’s… kind of nice to be able to choose the flavours he wants himself. He can go ahead and add as many blueberries as he wants, and nobody can stop him.

He ends up adding another handful of blueberries to the finished product, just because he can, and his mouth twitches upwards as he does so.

After breakfast, he goes to train in the gym again, figuring he can take control of his training schedule if his handler is going to be lax in that area. After training he finds himself with more free time, and he eventually goes back up to the common room, his book in hand, intending to read some more.

He could probably read in his room if he wanted, but he finds it kind of nice to be able to move around the Tower and the natural light is brighter in the common room too, since there are more windows. It’s also nice to sit on a couch that he doesn’t sleep on, and he settles onto the common room couch, leaning against the arm and tucking his legs up as he finally focuses in on his book.

Around noon his reading is interrupted by the sound of the elevator and a thrill of surprise goes through him when Stark steps out, the man making a beeline for the kitchen. In all honesty, the Asset hadn’t been expecting to see Stark anytime soon, given how affected he had seemed to be by their conversation yesterday, but he supposes that Stark must need to eat as well, and the common room is rather convenient.

Still, he doesn’t want to accidentally upset him any further, so he keeps his head down while Stark messes around in the kitchen. It’s a little harder to focus on his book when part of his mind is preoccupied by Stark in the background, but he manages, and Stark doesn’t stay long. A few minutes, and the sound of the microwave and the coffee machine later, and Stark is back down the elevator, leaving the Asset in peace.

He lets out a slow breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding at the sound of the elevator and shrugs his shoulders, trying to loosen them a little. The smell of whatever Stark had made is enticing, and a few minutes of fruitless reading later he finally gives in and stands up, setting his book aside and directing his gaze to the ceiling as he asks JARVIS what Stark had eaten and whether he is allowed it too.

JARVIS seems unimpressed at the thought of frozen burritos, but the Asset finds the taste rather appealing.

He envies Stark a little, and the fact that the man has his lab to wile away the hours in. For his part, without the other Avengers around to fill up his time, the Asset discovers that he isn’t very good at finding things to do.

JARVIS recommends a few TV shows, so he watches them for a while, but he finds the activity more enjoyable with others around. He’s not used to watching TV. It’s one activity that seemingly does not bring back any flashbacks, so it’s easier and more enjoyable for him if he has the other Avengers there to give him cues about what to expect when watching.

Should he care what house the couple wants to buy? Are wood floors better than carpet? And why is the sink so bad? (Why do they want a sink that isn’t _divided?_ Isn’t it easier to wash dishes with a double sink?) Should it be replaced even though they’ve already gone over budget?

It seems perfectly fine to _him_.

JARVIS isn’t much help in that department so eventually he turns the TV off and goes back to his book. At least he doesn’t have to question the sanity and colour-coordinating abilities of the Fellowship as they continue on their journey.

He’s still reading when Stark comes up for supper and he very carefully keeps his eyes on his book while he prepares whatever he plans on eating. Stark hasn’t been explicitly hostile to him, so he’s hopeful that the man isn’t overly upset with him, but he figures it’s probably best to just leave him alone for now. His handler probably won’t appreciate it if the Asset manages to get onto bad terms with Stark in the few days they are left alone together.

His plan not to bother Stark gets foiled though, when the man approaches him himself, a plate with a sandwich in his hand and a raised eyebrow on his face. The Asset eyes him a little warily, trying not to tense as he tries to figure out if he should move off the couch or not. If Stark wants to sit down, he could sit anywhere, but maybe he wants to sit right _here—_

“You still reading that?” Stark asks, and the Asset flicks his eyes down to his book in surprise. He nods slowly and looks back up at Stark, wondering if the man has a problem with his book for some reason. Stark shrugs and takes a bite of his sandwich. “Kudos to you I guess, I think I’d go nuts if I did nothing but read all day.”

The Asset blinks at him a little, unsure how to respond. Technically he had done other things today, but it _is_ true that he had spent most of his day reading because— “I don’t have much else to do,” he says candidly, and Stark raises both his eyebrows in response.

“Geez,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You and Steve both—” He looks up. “Come on, there’s gotta be _something_ you like to do. I mean, reading is fine, but what _else_ do you like to do?”

The Asset scans Stark slowly, trying to pull up some sort of response and wondering why Stark seems determined to have a conversation with him. “I train,” he offers a little uncertainly, and Stark scoffs lightly.

“Something for _fun_ , Terminator,” he says, taking another bite of his sandwich.

The Asset is pretty sure that nicknames are a sign of affection for Stark, so he lets the strange name slide and turns back to trying to figure out how to answer. He hasn’t had a lot of time to _do_ things for fun, let alone figure out what things he likes most. In all honesty, he simply enjoys being able to _do_ things in general. He likes being able to train, and go on walks with Natasha and go to the library with Bruce and—

— _Steve pushes the package towards him, the thin bundle wrapped in old newspaper and tied with brown string. He waits a moment before tapping his fingers on the table. “Well?” he says impatiently. “Open it already.”_

 _He shoots a grin at Steve and pulls the package closer, carefully pulling on the string and tugging on the paper, folding it away for later. His eyes widen as he looks down and catches sight of the distinctive yellow cover of a_ Newnes Modern Motor Repair _magazine._

_“I couldn’t find them all,” Steve is saying, his fingers tapping against the table again. “An’ I know you’d rather be doing that then working at the docks, but I figured you could still read about it–”_

_He looks up and grins at Steve, cutting him off. “This is_ great,” _he says, sliding the few magazines away from the paper and flipping through the first couple pages._

_Across from him, Steve relaxes, grinning brightly in return. “Good then,” he says. “Happy Birthday—_

The Asset blinks, looking up to find Stark still in front of him, and a part of him hopes that his flashback hadn’t been too obvious this time, or have taken too long. Stark doesn’t look impatient, so hopefully not. Either way, his most recent flashback had been… interesting. Judging from its content, he thinks that maybe…

“Cars,” he tells Stark, and the man blinks at him in surprise. “I think I used to like cars.” He thinks over the flashback again. “Fixing cars,” he amends.

“Oh.” Stark takes another bite of his sandwich. “I didn’t know that.”

 _Neither did I, until a few minutes ago,_ the Asset thinks wryly as he watches Stark chew. Also, according to the flashback, he has a _birthday,_ one that he and his handler had celebrated in the past. (He can’t help wondering _when_ it is, he knows his handler’s, of course, but his is probably _different._ ) Of course, once he actually thinks about it, it makes perfect sense. Of course he has a birthday, it’s not like Hydra spawned him out of the blue somewhere, right? of course he was _born_ , how _else_ did he think _—_

“You work on any recently?” Stark asks, cutting into his train of thought. The Asset stares at him for a second and Stark swallows. “Cars, I mean.”

“Oh.” The Asset blinks in surprise. “No,” he says. He can’t remember if he’s worked on cars _ever_ , let alone if he’s done it recently. He definitely hasn’t while staying in Avengers Tower, and he can’t remember ever having done it on any previous Hydra missions.

Stark stuffs the last of his sandwich into his mouth, his eyes seeming to scan the Asset as he chews. He swallows and wipes his mouth, sucking a little on his teeth before shifting his feet, seeming to come to a decision. “Did you want to?” he asks finally.

The Asset looks down at his book before looking back up at Stark, his brows furled. “I… don’t have a car.”

Stark huffs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I _know_ , genius,” he says, before rolling his shoulders and gesturing at him to stand up. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

The Asset complies, albeit confusedly, setting his book aside and standing up to follow Stark. For his part, Stark detours to the kitchen to set down his plate before motioning him towards the elevator. Once inside, Stark rubs his hands together, although whether out of nerves or excitement, the Asset can’t be sure.

“JARVIS, can you take us to the garage?” he asks, and they begin to move downwards.

Vaguely bemused by Stark’s behaviour, the Asset turns and stands with his hands held loosely behind his back, mostly out of habit rather than actually standing at attention. A silence falls over them as they watch the elevator numbers count downwards, and the Asset finds he can’t decide if it’s an awkward one or not.

Eventually he decides that if it _is_ an awkward one, then Stark is the victim of it, and not himself. He’s good at standing in silence.

They arrive at the garage soon enough though, and the doors ding open, revealing a cement parking lot lined with rows of cars. The Asset blinks and breathes in, noting the lack of car fumes as he steps out of the elevator and takes in the room before him.

Handler-Steve hadn’t included this room when he had first given him a tour of the tower, and the presence of this many cars in Avengers Tower is unexpected. And there _are_ a lot of them. They line the wall on either side of the elevator and continue down to what the Asset assumes is the garage’s underground exit.

“They’re not all mine,” Stark is telling him, as he too steps out of the elevator. “Steve has his motorcycle here, and Sam has a car, and I think Clint has what I _swear_ is a farm truck sometimes. Although why he would need that I don’t _know_ …” he waves a hand. “But basically, all the cool ones are mine.”

The Asset’s mouth twitches, and he scans the cars in front of him again. He has to admit that they _do_ look pretty impressive. They also look fairly different from the cars he had seen in the magazines during his most recent flashback, which is a little confusing, but he’s seen cars before, and most of them look similar to Stark’s, so he tries not to think about it too hard.

Stark clears his throat. “Anyways,” he says and motions for the Asset to follow him along the back wall of the garage to where a metal table is laid out, with tools, cables, buckets and rags and numerous bottles of oils and solvents stored neatly on a large shelving unit behind it. “I don’t have much time to _drive_ them, let alone look after them,” he says, his fingers tapping out a sharp rhythm on the table as he puts his other hand in his pocket and scans the wall of supplies.

He turns to him, his one hand rubbing at a spot on the table. “So, anyway. The keys are all labeled and over there.” He waves his hand at a metal box full of drawers on the counter next to the shelves. “JARVIS can help with things you don’t understand, and the car manuals are all in the glove boxes…” He shrugs. “I mean, don’t drive them _around_ but, you can come down here whenever you like.”

He pats the table once before beginning to edge past him back towards the elevator and the Asset turns his head to follow his progress, completely baffled. As he passes, Stark’s mouth twitches for a moment and he lifts his hand as if to pat the Asset on the shoulder, before dropping it again. “Just don’t break anything, yeah?”

The Asset nods, wide-eyed, and watches as Stark leaves via the elevator, his mind spinning as he turns back to face the cars in front of him. The cars that Stark had told him he could look after. He… he doesn’t even know where to start.

But, judging from his flashback, he’d been interested in cars once and… this _is_ the first time Stark had offered him any kind of activity to do, besides the BARF sessions so… So he might as well try it out. He can feel himself relaxing at his decision and he turns to scan the wall of supplies. Some of the things he gets the impression that he knows what they are and maybe how to use them, but others not so much. Whatever information that might have been in those magazines in his flashbacks is gone now, so before he gets started on _anything,_ he’s going to need to do some research.

“JARVIS?” he says finally. “What kinds of cars does Stark have?”

JARVIS replies and the Asset soon falls into the comfortable rhythm of questioning and answering, eventually working up the nerve to unlock a few cars and flip through their manuals, being careful not to accidentally scratch the paint with his left hand as he moves. Stark had trusted him with this, and he’s not about to damage anything.

And besides… the cars _are_ pretty cool.

oOo

He finds he enjoys working with cars. He hasn’t actually _done_ much with them, but he now spends his time researching them and getting up to date with the terminology. For whatever reason, a lot of the knowledge he has about cars is dated, but JARVIS provides him with plenty of resources and he finds himself reading the car manuals cover to cover.

Stark finds him at it the next day and teases him that he’s reading just as much as he had been before, but the Asset doesn’t mind, it’s _interesting_. (Stark also gives him a specially designed glove to put over his left hand so that he won’t have to worry about scratching the paint of any of the cars. When not in use, the glove gets stored away carefully on top of the journal Romanoff had given him.)

The Avengers make contact on the third day and JARVIS calls the Asset into Stark’s lab to hear the transmission. Stark’s lab is a whirlwind of high-tech, and half-finished projects, but the Asset is distracted away from his gawking when DUM-E rushes up to greet him excitedly as he walks in. He reaches out absentmindedly to pet the affectionate robot, and he’s pretty sure he catches the flash of a pleased expression on Stark’s face before he turns and tells JARVIS to run the call for them.

“Cap, do you read?” Stark asks, his arms folded over his chest as he stares at a computer screen in front of him.

A box pops up and displays an audio wavelength and the Asset finds himself relaxing as he hears his handler’s voice for the first time in several days.

“ _I read you Tony, is Bucky there with you?”_

Stark seems to relax as well at his handler’s response, and he glances back at the Asset before turning to the computer screen. “Yeah, he’s here,” he says, shifting on his feet. “What’s the situation over there?”

 _“It doesn’t look like Hydra’s been here yet,”_ Handler-Steve reports and the Asset feels a flood of relief at his words. In reality, the news is not that surprising, since the Avengers probably would have broken radio silence earlier if they had been in a firefight, but it’s nice to know they hadn’t had to deal with any Hydra agents or Winter Soldiers directly.

 _“Right now, we’re just sweeping the base and gathering any information we can find,”_ his handler tells them. _“We’ll probably be home by the end of the week.”_

Stark smiles at that and drops his arms before beginning to ask after various suit and equipment modifications he had made before the team had left. Handler-Steve responds with positive news for everything and the Asset bites his tongue so as to not interrupt the friendly conversation.

‘ _Did you kill the Winter Soldiers?’_

The question burns in his throat, but he forces it down. For one thing, he’d already told his handler his opinion on how to deal with the Winter Soldiers, and he doesn’t want to make it seem like he doesn’t trust his handler’s judgement. He does, he just… he just knows that things will go badly if the Winter Soldiers remain a threat.

 _Handler-Steve is willing to use lethal force when necessary,_ he reminds himself sternly. _Afterall, Pierce is dead._ Of course, now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t actually know for sure if his handler had been the one to actually _kill_ Pierce. He’d _been_ there when it had happened, but what role he had played…

 _“I’ll see you guys soon,”_ his handler says, before signing off, and the Asset swallows uneasily, hoping that when his handler comes back, it is not with five super soldier prisoners in tow.

 _If he brings them back,_ he decides slowly, thinking back to the weapons he has stashed in his dresser. _Then… I will just have to take care of them._

If, for whatever reason, his handler does not understand the full threat that the Winter Soldiers pose, then the Asset will step up. Afterall, it is his _job_ to take care of problems, and he, for one, very much understands how dangerous the Winter Soldiers can be.

oOo

The Avengers radio their return exactly one day later, and the Asset finds himself waiting with Stark in the common room, his mind too preoccupied to focus on reading either his books or his car manuals. Stark seems restless too, idly poking around the bookshelves by the TV while they wait, his hands never still for more than a few moments.

“Hey.” The Asset looks over to find him still focused on a random book on the bookshelf. “You still camping out in Steve’s room?”

The Asset blinks at him, the topic seemingly out of left field. “Yes,” he responds finally, wondering why Stark is so interested.

Stark hums and puts the book back, throwing him a brief glance. “You know…” he starts casually. “There’s plenty of rooms in the tower… if you wanted your own, we could probably find one. Even one close to Steve, if you want.”

Surprise flows through him and he finds himself at a loss for words. It had never even crossed his mind before to want a room for himself. Of course, now that he thinks about it, it is a little awkward sometimes, sleeping out on his handler’s couch, but having his own room seems…

He’s saved from having to respond by JARVIS’ announcement that the Avengers are inbound, and he and Stark both go over to wait by the door leading to the landing pad. A few minutes later and the quinjet arrives, its engines kicking up clouds of dust as it navigates and touches down.

The Asset finds himself sucking in a deep breath of relief at the sight of the ship. He’d known his handler and the Avengers hadn’t reported any difficulties on the mission, but part of him had still been convinced, up until this very moment, that his handler would somehow manage to get himself killed or seriously injured on this mission and he wouldn’t be able to _do_ anything about it because he’s _still in the tower—_

— _The mission goes well, but he’d had a close call. It’s still chilling to think about. If he hadn’t happened to trip over that tree root when he had, then the sniper bullet would have made a home in his skull, rather than the tree trunk behind him. Steve had taken care of it soon enough, calculating the trajectory of the bullet and slinging his shield at the sniper with almost freakish speed and accuracy but..._

_He can’t get over the pale, terrified look that had flashed over Steve’s face in the moment when they had both realised what had almost happened._

_Back at camp, he steps off to the side and lights a cigarette, his mind still preoccupied with the day’s mission. He drags in a breath of smoke and thinks back to the look on Steve’s face when he had risked everything and stormed a Hydra base – by_ himself, _with no backup_ _– and rescued him._

_‘I thought you were dead’, he had said, the look on his face proving the accuracy of his words._

_But he had still come._

_He drops the cigarette on the ground and crushes it under his boot, his brow furled as he turns back to camp. Something… something needs to be done about that._

_***_

_It takes him a while to find Peggy – which isn’t surprising, she’s a busy woman after all – but he eventually manages to snag her in between meetings, dipping his head at her and catching her attention as he steps into the tent. “You got a minute?” he asks as she begins gathering up her papers._

_“Maybe,” she says in her usual clipped accent. “Depends on what it is.”_

_“It’s about Steve,” he says, and she looks up. “I have a favour to ask.”_

_***_

_They go to Peggy’s tent because privacy is limited in a camp full of exhausted men who have spent far too much time cooped up together. Peggy goes over to sit on her camp bed, her hands clasped primly on her lap, and he lowers himself onto the folding chair across from her._

_“I need you to do something for me,” he says quietly, leaning forward on his knees and catching Peggy’s eye. He swallows, his mind flashing back to how Steve had been after his mother had died, quiet and sad and desperate to push himself into moving on, determined to make it by himself because he had needed something_ else _to focus on_.

 _“If I die,” he says softly. “I need you to promise to look after Steve.” Peggy opens her mouth and he shakes his head, not finished yet. “If I die, Steve’ll try to mourn all private-like, draw into himself and bottle it up until he finds himself another mission.” He looks down for a second and fiddles with his fingers before looking back up at Peggy. “And when he does that, he won’t stop pushin’ himself until he drops. He’ll find himself a goal and then he’ll push himself to the end of the_ world _if he has to, in order to complete it.”_ —

He comes back to himself because the quinjet has landed and Stark is already out on the landing pad arguing with Romanoff about whether or not he is allowed to lift the supply bins. He is not, and the Asset shakes himself out of his stupor in order to go help unload the rest of the quinjet.

The Avengers come in looking exhausted and smelling of smoke, but overall whole and healthy, which is a relief. He can’t keep his eyes off his handler though, watching him as he helps with the initial unpacking and sorting of their supplies, his mind turning over his most recent flashback. His handler _seems_ put together, his face and shoulders relaxed as he talks and jokes with the Avengers… but the Asset still can’t help worrying. His flashbacks make it seem more and more likely that Handler-Steve simply won’t show his team if he were upset about something that can’t be helped.

He chews on the inside of his cheek in frustration and sticks to shadowing his handler as he wracks his brain for something that will somehow make this _better._

The Avengers decide to wait to have a debriefing meeting until the next day, opting instead for warm food, showers and beds first, which is fine… it just means that the Asset _still_ doesn’t know whether or not his handler has actually completed his mission and killed the Winter Soldiers.

None of the soldiers had been taken prisoner on the quinjet, and the Asset figures the Avengers would be acting more concerned if any of them had managed to escape, so _logically_ , they are probably all dead… but he still doesn’t _know_ and he _also_ doesn’t know how his handler feels about it.

He’s still preoccupied by the whole thing upon returning to the room, his circular thoughts making him restless as he waits as patiently as possible for his handler to finish with his shower. The water seems to run for longer than usual and he can’t seem to keep still, his mind buzzing as he paces the few steps between the living room and kitchen.

He’s going to have to ask his handler about the Winter Soldiers, he realises that. There is _no_ way he’s going to be able to wait until tomorrow’s briefing to know whether or not the threat they pose is gone for good. He knows he’s going to have to ask but… His mouth twists and he paces back towards the living room. Coming out and questioning his handler on his own mission feels a lot like stepping out of line and…

He shakes his head and turns back towards the kitchen. He shouldn’t be worried about stepping out of line. His _handler_ doesn’t seem to mind (at least he hasn’t the last several times) and the status of the Winter Soldiers is much more important than protocols here.

He stops in front of the kitchen and runs his hand along the countertop as he thinks. He’s pretty confident at this point that his handler won’t mind his questioning. He glances over the kitchen and looks back towards the bathroom door, the sound of running water filling the silence behind him. He taps his finger on the counter and purses his lips.

He’s going to need to talk to his handler and he’s pretty sure his handler won’t mind… _but_ … it’s almost suppertime and his handler is already tired from his mission. If he wants to make sure his handler is in the best mood to hear his questions, then…

He looks back towards the kitchen and thinks over all the meals he’d prepared for himself in his handler’s absence. He has a lot of practice at this point and he’s pretty sure he can come up with something simple and fast that he can serve his handler.

He looks back towards the bathroom and a small smile flickers on his face. His handler had already shown that he doesn’t mind when the Asset cooks, he’d allowed Wilson to teach him after all… So maybe it’s time for the Asset to make something for his handler for a change.

Steam billows out from the bathroom doorway once his handler finally emerges, his hair still slightly wet and spiked, and his mission uniform replaced with soft sleep clothes. He pauses almost as soon as he exits, blinking in surprise as he takes in the set counter and the pot of soup on the stove.

For his part, the Asset stands almost defensively by the stove, his jaw set determinedly as he stares down his handler, soup spoon in hand. He knows his handler probably won’t mind, so he shouldn’t have to worry, and he’d made enough for both of them and JARVIS had warned him about his handler’s calorie intake needs and he’d made enough so he _shouldn’t have to worry_ —

His handler relaxes, a pleased smile on his face as he approaches the kitchen, his gaze almost awed as he takes everything in. “What did you make?” he asks quietly as he takes a seat and the Asset relaxes, breathing in properly as he gives the soup one last stir.

“Chicken noodle,” he says decisively, turning off the stove and setting his spoon down. When he turns to put the pot on the island, his handler is smiling like he’s just won the lottery.

Of _course_ he wouldn’t mind him making _food_. The Asset lets out a quiet huff and sets the pot down on the trivet he’d set out. He shouldn’t have worried.

After supper they do the dishes in silence and the Asset washes this time, his mind more consumed by his dilemma over the Winter Soldiers than focused on his task. He completes it well enough anyways, and he and his handler eventually move back to the living room.

His handler leaves for a moment for his room before coming back with his journal and sitting down next to the Asset on the couch. He doesn’t open it to start writing though, instead sitting with it in his lap for a while and staring ahead of himself out the windows.

The Asset is reminded of the blank look on his handler’s face from his previous flashback in the woods, and he shifts uneasily, not liking the implications. Eventually his handler seems to blink back from wherever he had been, and he turns to the Asset, a smile trying to find a place on his face.

“Did you do anything interesting while I was gone?” he asks, and the Asset eyes him, noting how tightly his handler’s hands clench on the journal in his lap. He swallows and narrows his eyes. In a normal situation, he might feel nervous about reporting his activities to his handler, because he could have very well done something unacceptable. But now…

Now his handler has handed him the perfect segue to ask about the Winter Soldiers.

“I read some books,” he tells his handler, nodding towards the bookshelf. “And Stark let me work on his cars.”

His handler’s eyes widen in surprise at that and he smiles, relaxing a little back into the couch. “That’s nice,” he says. “Tony’s cars always look so impressive, but I would have no idea where to start with them.”

The Asset nods before shifting a little and clenching his teeth. “What… about you?” he manages to get out. “Did, did you–” He breathes in. “Did you kill the Winter Soldiers?”

His handler’s smile drops, and he tenses, turning his face to look at his journal as he runs his finger along the edge. The Asset presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he waits in silence and tries to breathe normally. His handler obviously doesn’t want to talk about it – but he needs to know – and he doesn’t think his handler will be _mad_ at him for asking.

“Yes,” his handler finally says, very quiet, his eyes never lifting up from his journal. “Yes we— I did.” He presses his lips together, his thumb pushing into the journal. “They were all still in their chambers,” he explains softly, his thumb running over the edge of the book. “The base was shut down, but the chambers were still keeping them alive…” He shifts and shrugs, the movement too stiff to be relaxed. “That meant that we just had to turn off the chambers, shut down the life support.” He swallows and lifts his head to look back up at the windows. “After we were done sweeping the place for information…” His face twists for a second before smoothing out again. “We blew up the building.”

The Asset finds himself shifting a little closer to his handler. “A painless death,” he says quietly.

His handler nods, his eyes still distant. “Yeah.”

The Asset frowns, trying to figure out what his handler needs. He doesn’t really think that Handler-Steve actually _regrets_ killing the Winter Soldiers. That had needed to be done, there was no question about it but… he gets the impression that his handler simply wishes that none of it had had to happen at all. Hydra, the Winter Soldiers, killing people without giving them a choice…

He swallows and eyes his handler, wishing that his previous flashbacks had given him more clues for how to help. He presses his lips together for a moment before breathing in quietly and very carefully moving so that he can lean and press his shoulder firmly against his handler’s.

The muscles in his handler’s shoulder twitch in surprise at the contact, but he doesn’t pull away or even say anything. Instead he seems to let out a breath, some of the tension beginning to ease out of his frame as he lets up on his grip on his notebook.

“You… made the right choice,” the Asset says quietly, as he too stares out the window, because he thinks his handler needs to hear the words. It feels a little strange to comfort his handler in this way, and he doesn’t think he’s ever done something like this for any other handler but…

But something about it feels very very right, and the press of his handler’s shoulder against his own is grounding in its own right, and they sit like that for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if Bucky worked on cars in the comics, or if that’s a fanon thing, but I thought it would be nice for Tony to introduce that back to him. The magazines the Steve gives him for his birthday are actually a British one, but you can still find old copies for sale online!
> 
> Anyway… I know some of you were wondering what would happen to the Winter Soldiers. What did you think? Leaving them alive in anyway would be super danger, so Bucky definitely thinks they should be killed, and I think Steve understands that… but it was nice that Bucky was able to comfort him afterwards, especially now that he has that flashback of his conversation with Peggy. 
> 
> It might be a little off-putting to think of Steve killing the Winter Soldiers, but he knows their history, and in CA:TFA, he was perfectly willing to make sure that all of Hydra was “killed or captured”, so I think he would be prepared to kill them, even if he doesn’t really like killing them in cold blood.
> 
> Also, if ya'll reading this all at once, this is the half way point. Go get a drink or something and go to bed. You won't feel like stopping for the next five chapters, believe me.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset remembers.

The Avengers allow the Asset to sit in on their meeting as they go through the information they had gathered at the Siberian base. A lot of it is out of date, but it gives them insight into Hydra’s past activities and even more places to check up on. And, as he’s sitting there, the Asset can’t help wondering if his handler had found anything on his training with Hydra while in Siberia. He must have, but he doesn’t mention it.

“Some of the governments most effected by Hydra have been doing their own investigations,” Handler-Steve informs them as they go over what they’ve learned. “They haven’t asked for our help specifically, and we can’t always just go barging in.” His mouth twists and he sighs. “There’s evidence that Hydra is still out there – we’ve even heard reports that Rumlow might still be active…” His teeth clench. “But often we’re left to simply hope and trust that governments are actually trying to root out the Hydra heads themselves.”

“Who knows if they really _are_ though,” Stark cuts in, an unimpressed look on his face. “My guess is it’ll be ‘Operation Paperclip’ all over again.”

Handler-Steve huffs out a breath and shifts unhappily in his chair. “My thoughts exactly,” he says, tapping some buttons on the console next to him to project a world map, red dots appearing to presumably show Hydra hotspots. “Hill and Pepper are doing their best, but the fact remains that there are simply some places that, if we go in, we might accidentally trigger a conflict between them and the States.”

“We’re not being sent by the US government though,” Wilson protests. “It’s not like we’re acting on behalf of the States.”

Handler-Steve shakes his head. “That doesn’t help,” he says. “As it is, we’re on iffy ground with our trip to Siberia and Sokovia… but those were important enough that I felt we should do it anyways.” He taps his finger on the table. “The fact remains that we don’t have much authority outside of the US.” He shrugs. “SHIELD might have helped with that… but I doubt they would have had much leverage after being so thoroughly infiltrated by Hydra.” He sighs. “They would have had a hard time finding the moral high ground with some of these countries.” His finger curls into a fist and his mouth twitches. “Plus, they were more or less a branch of the United States government, so we have the problem of foreign invasion again.”

He reaches for the console and types in a few commands, a couple locations now showing up in green. “That being said, the World Security Council _is_ still in place,” he explains. “And Hill has been working with them and the UN. The UN is being slow on their side of things, but we do have several countries that have consented to allow us to participate in their Hydra investigations.” He looks up and flashes them a wry smile. “Evidently they found the ability to get rid of Hydra without risking their own people a pretty good deal.”

The Avengers spend the rest of the meeting going over and planning for their upcoming missions and the Asset sits back silently, knowing that he and Stark won’t be going on any of them.

“I was thinking that me and Barnes will continue with the BARF stuff,” Stark tells his handler after the meeting, angling himself so that he’s speaking at both him and Handler-Steve. “I’d kind of like to do it when you guys are around, but we might end up doing a few sessions while you’re away, depending on your schedule.”

His handler nods and looks up to catch the Asset’s eye. “Whatever works best for you,” he says. “I don’t think there’s a particular rush for this, so–” He turns his head to catch Stark’s gaze too. “–if there’s ever any day you don’t feel up to it, that’s fine.”

Stark and the Asset both nod their understanding and turn to make their way out of the room. Although, privately, the Asset isn’t sure if he’d ever be able to say no to a session with Stark. Saying no to things is still… difficult for him to think about, and he knows that his handler wants the trigger words to be removed as soon as possible, no matter what he says. It’s… nice to know that he has the option though.

oOo

He doesn’t have another session with BARF until later, a day or two before the Avengers ship out again to fight Hydra, and part of him is glad that his handler is still in the tower when he goes for his session, even if his handler won’t be in the room with him. It’s comforting just knowing he’s in the building, even if he doesn’t think anything will actually go _wrong_ with BARF.

“Alright.” Stark rubs his hands together and hands the Asset the BARF glasses. “Everything ready to go, Beck?” He turns back to look at the setup of consoles and the man next to them, who nods his head silently, his gaze mainly focused on the screens in front of him. Stark turns to give the Asset a half-smile before heading back to sit next to Beck. “Ready when you are,” he says.

The Asset nods and breathes in carefully as he reaches up to put on the glasses and steps back. In front of him, Stark reaches over to play the recording of the trigger words. “I picked one near the end this time,” he says, before hitting a button.

“ _Доброкачественные_ ,” the speakers say. _Benign._ The Asset breathes in and closes his eyes, centering himself for a brief moment before raising his head again. He opens his eyes and in front of him his holo-self shimmers into view, standing impassively as he listens to Handler-Pierce read out his trigger words.

“ _Возвращение домой_ ,” he says, his accent slightly jarring. _Homecoming._

The Asset closes his eyes again and tries to think only about what the word means, nothing about trigger words or the approaching end of the sequence or handlers or missions or orders. Just… homecoming.

The sound of a grunt makes him look up again and he opens his eyes to see a new scene, his holo-self stationed on top of a small apartment building, his gun strapped to his back as he looks over the side and scans the street below. For half-a-second the Asset is reminded of his mission to kill Nick Fury, but this one is different, it’s set in the daytime instead of at night and his uniform is not the same as the one Hydra usually puts him in, this one lacking the mask and goggles.

His hair is shorter too, and his brow furls as he watches his holo-self track something out of view before moving to leap across the roofs of the apartment buildings around him. The BARF tech only shows the tops of the buildings as his holo-self moves along, but from the limited scenery that he can see, the Asset is fairly confident in his interpretation of the scene.

His holo-self makes one last leap, his arms outreached as he aims for the rooftop of the next building, his hair whipping around his face as he jumps. But his eyes widen as he misjudges the distance, and the Asset’s own heart gives a jolt of surprise as his holo-self misses, his foot slipping and his metal arm flailing as his breath catches, gravity beginning to take hold. His holo-self makes one last grab at empty air – seeming to hang in place for a single moment – before he tumbles off the side of the building and crashes down into the narrow alley below.

The fall couldn’t have been more than a few stories, but the hologram blacks out for a second as his holo-self hits the ground with a grunt of pain and a clang of metal. Across from him, both Beck and Stark are watching wide-eyed and the Asset reminds himself to breathe, sucking in a breath as the hologram flickers back on, blurring in and out of focus for a second as his holo-self wakes up.

His holo-self doesn’t look to be seriously injured, besides the bloody bruise on his temple, but he sways slightly as he stands up, giving his head a shake as he leans his metal arm against the brick building that lines the alleyway. He seems to stare bemusedly at his hand for a moment before looking around and taking a shaky step to the side.

A crunch makes him look down, and he moves his foot blearily, revealing the crushed remains of the earpiece he had been wearing, the equipment having come off during his fall. His holo-self stares at it for a moment, seemingly confused, before lifting his head and staring around the alley, his hand still firmly planted on the wall beside him.

“Is this you?” Stark asks suddenly from across the room. “Are you creating this?”

The Asset shakes his head, watching as his holo-self stumbles forward a few steps and seems to stare transfixed at the brick wall beside him, his hand running along the grooves as his brow furls, his eyes clouded. “I don’t remember this,” he says, although the vision seems to be tugging at something in his brain as he watches. He wouldn’t be surprised if he remembers everything about this by the end of the session.

His holo-self looks around the alley again, seemingly searching for something, before his other hand reaches up to feel the bruise on his temple and he stumbles forward a few more steps, his eyes scanning the space around him.

“Do you know what’s happening?” Stark asks as they watch his holo-self begin to shakily make his way out of the alley and onto the empty street beyond it. He winces once the sun hits his eyes and the Asset narrows his own, his teeth tugging at his lip as he thinks, trying to catch onto the wisps in his brain.

“Something… I was looking for something,” he says finally. “I think… hitting my head erased the mission, so when I woke up…” He trails off, his mind flashing back to his holo-self’s interest in the brick wall of the alley. In front of him, his holo-self scans the street, his eyes definitely searching for something. “I… I think,” the Asset starts slowly, as his holo-self begins to move a little faster, determination settling into his gaze. “I think I was looking for— I think I used to look for Ste– Handler-Steve in alleys, when he got into fights and I think—”

He swallows and stares as his holo-self continues to trail up and down different streets, ducking into different alleys and sweeping them with an almost bewildered look on his face. The streets don’t exactly look like the ones he remembers from his flashbacks with small Steve, but they do have a resemblance and the alleys especially don’t seem to have changed much…

“I don’t think I knew what it was that I was looking for though,” he says quietly, as his holo-self scans another alley. “I just knew it was something _important._ ”

After a few minutes of watching his holo-self’s confused wanderings, the Asset gets the impression that the BARF tech is speeding through time, because the image blurs for a second and the next thing he knows, the sun is much lower in the sky and his holo-self is crouched, frozen in the shadows of an alleyway, his eyes wide as he accidentally comes across a pair of his handlers.

 _“He’s got to be_ somewhere _,”_ they hear the edges of the conversation between the two as his holo-self quietly begins to vibrate, his breathing short and silent. _“He didn’t check-in and he didn’t complete the mission, but he’s not exactly inconspicuous,_ someone’s _got to have seen something.”_

 _“Oh right,”_ the other man hisses, and back in the shadows, the holo-Asset flinches _. “We’ll just go around asking if anyone has happened to see a deadly assassin with a metal arm, that will go over well.”_ He scowls. _“Face it, we lost the Winter Soldier and the Russians are going to be_ pissed.”

 _“We’ll find him again,”_ the first man says, his voice dark and promising. _“He can’t hide forever.”_ He looks down and grumbles something deprecating, kicking a rock along the sidewalk ahead of him. _“I thought he was supposed to be_ trained.”

The Asset watches as his holo-self shudders and lurches to his feet, completely silent as he takes a jerky step towards the two men. Even with the step, he’s still in the shadows and hidden from view, and the Asset watches his holo-self’s face twist, his breath stuttering before he stumbles to a stop, his hand coming up to press against the brick wall beside him. He stares at it for a second, his eyes darting between it and the two agents as his shoulders heave up and down and he swallows nervously.

At long last, he casts one last look at the agents before taking a hesitant step backwards, his breath hitching quietly and his face paling before he takes another step back, and then another, his jaw tightening. His hand trails along the wall as he steps back before he turns, almost stumbling in his haste to get away.

Something tight wells up in the Asset’s chest as he watches his holo-self flee, and he breathes out, relaxing muscles that he hadn’t even known were tense.

“Are you doing this or is it still the memory?” Stark asks quietly, his eyes on the projection.

The Asset breathes in and shakes his head. “I haven’t changed anything,” he says, because he doesn’t want to yet. The memory is still new to him and he doesn’t exactly know what is going to happen, so he wouldn’t know how to change it anyways. Plus, it had come up when he’d been thinking over the trigger word, so it must be important, and he wants to know what it is first, before he tries to change anything. 

He swallows, watching as his holo-self stumbles to a halt several streets later and throws up, his hands shaking. “I think…” he says slowly, as his holo-self breathes through the fear of disserting his handlers. “I think I knew that if I went back to my handlers, I wouldn’t be able to find the thing I was looking for.” He swallows and clenches his teeth. “It was _important._ ”

Stark nods solemnly, something deep and understanding in his face, as, beside him, Beck watches the scene with narrowed eyes.

The Asset stares at the man for a moment before darting his eyes back to the middle of the room, the scene shimmering and changing into the dilapidated remains of an abandoned apartment. The walls are old and warped, graffiti littering any plaster that hasn’t fallen off, and there is little else inside besides a rolled up sleeping bag, a worn backpack, and windblown trash. Time has obviously passed since the last hologram. His holo-self looks more ragged than last time, his hair hanging limp and greasy by his face, and he has dark bags under his eyes as he sits crouched over an open can of soup in his lap, a set of civilian clothes replacing his old ones and covering his arm.

A creak from outside the room sets his holo-self on edge, and the can is replaced with a knife in the blink of an eye. He crouches forward on the balls of his feet, looking ready to pounce as he stares towards the door, his shoulders hunched and tense.

The door squeaks as it’s pushed open, and his holo-self manages to tense even further as a man with blond hair eases his way into the room. The newcomer doesn’t even have time to say anything before his holo-self is up and across the room, slamming the man against the doorjamb and pressing the knife steadily against his throat.

“ _No words,”_ his holo-self growls at the man—whom the Asset suddenly recognises to be a younger looking Pierce. “ _If you try to say the words, I will kill you.”_

Pierce stills completely before calmly raising his hands in submission, the folds of his suit jacket wrinkling under the holo-Asset’s grip. “ _I’m not here to trigger you,”_ he says soothingly, and his holo-self narrows his eyes. “ _I’m just here to talk, that’s it.”_

His holo-self darts his eyes over Pierce before letting out a huff of frustrated air and backing off, retreating back to his corner by the backpack, his movements tense and agitated as he paces a few feet back and forth. “ _I don’t want the words,”_ he growls again, throwing a glare at Pierce, his free hand moving up to tug on his hair for a second before dropping back down.

Pierce stays over by the door, his hands now resting easily by his side as he follows the holo-Asset’s movements. He offers him a small smile. “ _I know,”_ he says, before shaking his head almost pityingly. He flicks his eyes up and seems to scan the holo-Asset before giving a casual shrug. “ _But… you know… those words are supposed to help you, right?”_

His holo-self shudders and shakes his head, his hand clenching on his knife as he paces away. “ _N-no. No,”_ he snaps, shooting another glare at Pierce and sucking in a ragged breath. “ _No, you made me forget. I don’t want to forget.”_

Pierce offers him a sympathetic smile and the Asset swallows back a wave of dislike at the sight. _“I know you’re confused right now,”_ Pierce hedges, leaning forward slightly. _“But the maintenance we do is only meant to_ help _you.”_ He looks up at the holo-Asset, his face a picture of sincerity. _“Do you remember the serum you were given? To help you be a better soldier and protect people?”_

His holo-self pauses in his pacing and nods uneasily, his eyes wide as he breathes in, short and unevenly. _“Hurt,”_ he says thinly, his shoulders hunching. _“The serum hurt.”_

Pierce nods sagely. _“There was a mistake with your serum,”_ he says gravely, and the holo-Asset watches him with wide eyes. _“It makes you confused, gives you delusions.”_ He waves his hand. _“Without your regular maintenance you become violent and attack the people you’re supposed to be protecting.”_

His holo-self swallows shakily and edges further back into the room, before resuming his pacing, his right hand shaking almost imperceptibly. The Asset finds himself gently shaking as well, and he breathes in, trying to calm himself.

 _“Without maintenance you hurt people,”_ Pierce says, something hard glinting in his eyes. _“You forget what you’re supposed to be doing and hurt the agents trying to help you.”_ He settles back and places one of his hands in his pockets, seeming to soften. “ _If you come back with me, we can help you,”_ he says gently. _“We can make things less confusing.”_

The holo-Asset sucks in an unsteady breath and shakes his head, his hand clenching on the knife as he turns in his pacing and pauses next to the wall. “ _No, no. I remember stuff now,”_ he says, his eyes darting around uneasily. _“I don’t want to forget— I remember— there— there was a woman with brown hair and— and a flying car—”_

Pierce scoffs, and his holo-self shrinks back slightly. _“A flying car?”_ Pierce says skeptically, raising his eyebrows. _“Do you even_ hear _yourself?”_ He spreads his arms and looks around. _“Do you see any flying cars around?”_ He shakes his head, disappointed, and drops his arms. _“You are_ delusional. _Your memories get mixed up_. _We can help you with that.”_

His holo-self swallows and begins to chew on his lip, his eyes darting between Pierce, the doorway and the rest of the room. _“I…”_ He paces a few steps to the side before retreating back, seeming to take comfort in the wall beside him. _“I can’t go back yet,”_ he says, his hand flexing on his knife restlessly as he breathes in unsteadily. _“I hafta find Steve first.”_

Pierce seems to blink in surprise and the Asset copies him, not having been expecting his holo-self to be able to remember his old handler, he wonders quietly how long it had been since his holo-self had fled Hydra while Pierce carefully stores his surprised away, smoothing it over with an easy smile. _“Of course you want to find him,”_ he says, leaning back casually against the doorframe behind him. _“We can help you with that too.”_

His holo-self’s breath catches, and he seems to give a start, almost taking a step towards Pierce before edging back again. _“You… you know where Steve is?”_ he asks, a cautious sort of hope in his eyes.

Pierce nods before letting out a sigh and shaking his head, his hands going to his pockets. _“Don’t you remember?”_ he says almost sadly, eyeing the holo-Asset. _“You injured him in this escape attempt.”_

His holo-self draws back, stung, his eyes widening as he shakes his head jerkily. _“No! No, I—”_

 _“It’s not your fault,_ ” Pierce presses, a look of deep understanding on his face as he takes a step forward. _“You needed maintenance and you didn’t understand that he was trying to help you. You were confused.”_

His holo-self sucks in a frantic breath and darts his eyes around the room, his shoulders hunching as he seemingly tries to pull himself away from Pierce’s words. _“No, no, I—I thought— I thought I was s’posed to be_ fighting _Hydra,”_ he says, distress and confusion lacing his words. _“I was_ fighting _Hydra.”_

Pierce shakes his head and offers him another sympathetic smile. _“You’re just confused,”_ he says with a shrug. _“It happens when you go without maintenance for too long, remember? You start to malfunction.”_

Across from Pierce, the holo-Asset shivers and turns away, beginning to pace anew, his fingers clenching on his knife as he turns. He pauses and faces Pierce, his free hand tugging agitatedly on his pantleg. _“Is— is Steve okay?”_ he asks anxiously, his eyes not quite meeting Pierce’s as they dart around.

Pierce gives him a gentle smile, his posture a picture of ease. _“He’s still alive,”_ he says, not at all reassuring. _“The doctors are just keeping a watch over his concussion.”_ At his words, the holo-Asset pulls himself back further, his shoulders finally meeting the wall behind him.

 _“Steve’s— Stevie’s in the hospital ‘gain?”_ He breathes, his frame shuddering, his gaze unfocused. Across from him, the Asset watches as Pierce’s smile widens for half-a-second into something predatory.

 _“He’s okay,”_ he says, taking a half-step forward, his hands still in his pockets. _“But…”_ He gives the holo-Asset a solemn look. _“He doesn’t want to see you again, until you’ve been properly maintained.”_

On the other side of the hologram, Stark curses, and mutters something dark under his breath as they watch his holo-self sit frozen, his eyes wide as he takes in Pierce’s words. _“I—”_ His chest heaves. _“I didn’t mean to hurt Steve.”_

Pierce smiles all teeth at him and shrugs his shoulders. _“He knows,”_ he says with a casual shrug. _“You’re not going to be punished for this when you come back to base.”_ He shakes his head. _“But you need to be maintained, or you are dangerous.”_

His holo-self swallows dryly and flicks his eyes around the room uncertainly. _“I—”_ He flinches slightly and takes a step along the back wall. _“I don’t want to forget Steve,”_ he says, his voice tight as his hand flexes on the knife. _“I don’t want—”_ He cringes.

Pierce’s eyes flick to the knife for a second before he gives the holo-Asset a reassuring smile. _“You won’t,”_ he says. _“You don’t forget your handlers, do you?”_

The holo-Asset’s breath stalls for a second and his eyes widen as he scans Pierce, his knife hand shaking slightly. _“He— I— I can see Steve after?”_ he asks, a little desperately, his stance shifting restlessly.

Pierce nods and pulls his one hand out of his pocket to check his watch. _“Yes, of course you can see him after,”_ he says. _“Once you’re maintained, you’ll be perfectly safe.”_

The holo-Asset flicks his gaze between Pierce’s watch and his face a few times before he shrinks back as far as the wall behind him will allow. _“Hurts,”_ he says, his voice small, almost inaudible. _“Maintenance hurts.”_

Pierce smiles brightly at him, seemingly unbothered as he puts his hand back in his pocket, rocking on the balls of his feet. _“I know,”_ he says simply. _“But… you need to be maintained before you can be trusted on missions again.”_ He gives the holo-Asset a look. _“This is to_ help _you, so that you can keep helping_ us _.”_

The holo-Asset breathes in a few ragged breaths, darting his eyes over Pierce and the room and the knife in his hand before his shoulders seem to slump, his gaze still on the knife. _“I… didn’t mean to hurt Steve,”_ he whispers, his eyes flicking up to Pierce.

 _“It’s alright,”_ Pierce says, staring him down. _“We just want to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”_

The holo-Asset nods jerkily a few times, his breath stuttering as he slowly loosens his grip on the knife, and it falls to the floor with a dull clatter. He tenses as it falls, turning his gaze to eye Pierce warily, his entire frame coiling up tight like a spring.

Pierce gives him a pleased smile and takes a step back. “ _Well done,_ ” he says, nodding his head towards the door. _“Let’s go then.”_

His holo-self takes a jerky step towards Pierce and the image fades for a second, making the Asset think that the holographic memory might be over. But a second later, the image refocuses, showing the holo-Asset standing at attention by his recalibration chair, the yellow lights of the Vault reflecting dimly off his metal arm.

Time has passed since the last scene, his hair is wet but clean, and he’s back in his regular uniform, the blank look on his face making it evident that wiping protocols have been put in place. His eyes don’t even move when Pierce steps into the room, waving down the guards as Handler-Brubaker, a heavy-set man with a thinning beard, comes in after him.

Handler-Brubaker frowns and steps towards the holo-Asset, taking his chin in his hand and tilting his face from side to side, looking at his eyes. “ _You said he went rogue?”_ he asks, his accent colouring his voice as he turns his head to look back at Pierce.

Pierce nods, a sour expression on his face. _“He didn’t even complete the mission first,”_ he snaps, scowling. _“I thought you said he was fully operational.”_

Handler-Brubaker’s mouth thins and he looks back towards the holo-Asset. _“The mission was in New York, yes?”_ he says, tilting the holo-Asset’s chin again. His holo-self doesn’t resist, his gaze empty as he moves. _“The trigger words should have been enough to keep him under control_.” Handler-Brubaker narrows his eyes at him for a second before drawing his arm back and letting it fly in a sudden open-handed slap.

The Asset winces as his holo-self’s head snaps roughly to the side and he stumbles back, his breath catching in a muffled noise before he pulls himself upright again and stands at attention, his gaze continually (and deliberately, he thinks) blank. In front of him, Handler-Brubaker shakes out his hand and seems to scan the holo-Asset.

“ _He seems stable enough now,”_ he says, turning back to Pierce, and the man scoffs, folding his arms.

 _“Oh sure,_ now _he is,_ ” he says bitterly. _“But trigger words aren't helpful when he kills anyone who tries to say them before they get a chance to finish. I lost a_ dozen _men trying to bring him in you know, and he didn’t even kill the_ target _.”_

Handler-Brubaker hums and turns back to sweep his gaze over the holo-Asset, the red mark from his hand beginning to deepen on his cheek. _“Perhaps a shutdown protocol is necessary,”_ he says finally. _“A one-word trigger, should he attempt something like this again.”_

The image fades out finally and the Asset breathes in carefully, reaching up to take off his glasses. His hands shake slightly as he does so, and he finds that he’s backed himself up to press against the wall behind him.

“Wow.” He looks up to see Stark leaning back in his chair, looking about as drained as he feels. After a second, he glances up at him and runs a hand through his hair. “Guess that’s why they came up with Spu— with the ‘S’ word then.” The Asset nods slowly, his mind still spinning with everything he’d seen. “Must have been late 50s then,” Stark mutters to himself. “Maybe early 60s.”

The Asset isn’t exactly sure what he means by that, but he finds himself distracted by something even more important as he thinks over the session. He darts his head up to look at Stark and he swallows, his heart beginning to pound a little faster as he takes a step forward. “He was lying,” he says intently, his gaze pinned on Stark as something sharp wells up in his chest. “Wasn’t he? Handler-Steve— he wasn’t there.”

Pierce had said that he would let him see Handler-Steve again but Handler-Steve hadn’t been there because— because he had been fighting _against_ Hydra, and his holo-self had thought that he had fought against Hydra too, but Pierce had said that he had hurt his handler but his handler hadn’t even _been_ there—

Stark blinks at him, his eye flicking over him as he thinks. “Yeah,” he says simply, sitting back slightly. “He was probably lying about _all_ of that. Steve wasn’t with Hydra until last year.”

The Asset swallows and he lets out a breath, his brow furling as he tries to understand what he’s being told. He’d thought that his handler had been his handler before… back when he was small and then big but— but maybe he _had_ been, just not under Hydra. That would make sense since his handler doesn’t like Hydra, so of course he hadn’t been working for Hydra before. Of course, that would mean that at some point he had been transferred from his handler to Hydra for some reason, which is confusing— not that it would be the first time he had been transferred around— but he had been _fighting_ Hydra so why—?

“ _Well_. I think that’s all for today,” Stark says suddenly, standing up and waving a hand at Beck. “If you want to pack up, I’m going to go drink some decaf and pretend it’s not.”

A scowl flickers briefly over Beck’s face as Stark leaves, but the Asset finds he’s too preoccupied by his recent session to pay it much mind. Instead he hands off the glasses to Beck and leaves the room, feeling slightly dazed as he makes his way to the elevator and heads to his handler’s room.

When he arrives, he finds his handler already there, putting food away in the kitchen, and the Asset can’t muster up more than an exhausted nod as he makes his way to the couch. He can feel his handler’s gaze follow him into the living room, but he feels too drained to care, instead lowering himself slowly down unto the couch and staring blankly at the TV. Today’s session feels almost too big to process, and he’s not sure how to handle it all.

Behind him, he can hear his handler moving around in the kitchen, but it isn’t until a steaming mug of something is held out to him, that he focuses enough to pay attention. He reaches for it, the warmth helping to ground him a little as he breathes in the steam.

“It’s tea,” his handler says, sitting down next to him, his own mug in hand. “The new kind that Bruce got us.”

The Asset remains silent and takes a sip even though it’s still too hot to drink, and he allows his mind to focus on the solid presence of his handler. His handler who gives him tea, and doesn’t lie to him, and doesn’t strike him just to test his conditioning and who had been his handler _first_ but then had gone away for some reason—

Next to him, his handler shifts slightly, his gaze never changing as he gradually move so that his shoulder is pressed up against the Asset’s, his eyes remaining fixed ahead of himself as he sips his tea, acting as though nothing has changed at all. The move is surprising but… something tight and anxious begins to unwind in the Asset’s chest at the touch, and he finds himself relaxing, breathing out and taking another sip of his drink as he stares out past the TV to the windows beyond.

He will try to figure out the session another day. For now, he can just sit.

oOo

He writes down the session as well as he can remember it, but something about it almost frightens him, so he lets it be for now, deciding that he prefers to have his BARF sessions while his handler is still around, and electing not to have another one until his handler gets back from the latest Avengers raid. It isn’t a very big one, and no one gets injured, so when they return, the Avengers have a short resting period before their next mission.

Barton and Romanoff take the chance to leave the tower and go off somewhere not mission related (nobody seems to know where, but they take the truck), and his handler attends another one of his mysterious doctor’s appointments before Stark and the Asset finally organise another BARF session.

On the day of the session, the Asset steps into the room to find only Beck inside, the man fiddling with the computers, a sour look on his face. He looks up as the Asset enters and scowls slightly. “Stark is ‘running late’,” he says, using his fingers as mock quotes. “He told me to start getting set up and that we’ll start when he gets here.”

The Asset nods silently, not quite sure what to make of Beck’s attitude as he goes over to put on the glasses and waits for Beck to make sure that they are calibrated properly.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he just didn’t even show,” Beck grumbles as he fiddles with his computer settings. The Asset narrows his eyes but remains silent as the man continues to rant. “I mean,” he continues, not looking up. “This is all really _ridiculous_ anyways.” He waves his hand vaguely, gritting his teeth. “My technology could be _revolutionary_ , and what is he doing with it?” He drops his hand and glares at the computer screen. “Preforming in-house _therapy_ sessions for robot-assassins.” He looks up and finally gives the Asset a glance, glaring. “They could be _using_ your skills but noo…”

The Asset swallows and his stomach twists at Beck’s words, the rant reigniting his low-level worry that he isn’t fulfilling his purpose with the Avengers. His brow furls as Beck continues to mumble about the acronym BARF, all without seeming to expect a response. Something tugs at his brain as he sits in silence, and his lips press together as he takes in the scene.

Until now, Beck had been silent on all these issues, obviously unwilling to bring them up with Stark. Stark is his boss, so it makes sense that he wouldn’t want to get in trouble with him, but… he doesn’t seem worried about the _Asset_ hearing any of this and reporting him. He blinks and stares at Beck, the man not even paying him any attention as he continues to speak without regard for his audience.

He hadn’t exactly realised it until now but… it had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him like this. The Hydra agents had used to do it all the time, ranting and complaining about Command around him without worrying if he was listening because it didn’t really matter because he wasn’t really _there._ But…the Avengers don’t seem to do that; they never talk _around_ him because they never seem to forget that he is actually _alive._

His tongue presses into the roof of his mouth and he draws his lips into a thin line. He decides that he doesn’t much care for Beck.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for Stark to show up (and the Asset feels no small amount of satisfaction at the fact that the man had proven Beck wrong), and they soon get on with the BARF session.

“Alright,” Stark says as he settles into his chair next to Beck, his employee silent now that his boss is around. “I’m going to start today with the last trigger word in the sequence, and see where that leads us."

The Asset nods and adjusts the glasses on his face, breathing in carefully as he waits for the familiar trigger word to sound and trying to mentally prepare himself to resist whatever mission the BARF tech comes up with.

“ _Грузовой вагон_ ,” His handler’s voice sounds through the speakers. _Freight car._

The hologram projectors on the walls activate and he sees his holo-self come into view, the holo-Asset sitting in the Siberian calibration chair, Handler-Karpov standing in front of him, holding a red book.

“ _Доброе утро, Солдат_ ,” he says as he sets the book down on a side table. _Good morning, Soldier._

 _“Я готов отвечать,”_ the holo-Asset replies, his gaze steady. _Ready to comply._ The Asset shivers at the familiar phrase, one he hasn’t had to utter in a very long time, and he watches as Handler-Karpov picks up a file.

“ _У меня есть для тебя миссия_ ,” he says, as the holo-Asset flicks his eyes over him, his hair still wet from his recent cryofreeze and a tremor running through him from being wiped. _I have a mission for you._ He holds out the file. “ _Санкционируй и Извлекай. Без свидетелей.” Sanction and extract. No witnesses_.

The cuffs on the chair disengage and the holo-Asset sits up, taking the offered file, his gaze rapidly growing emptier as he settles into mission mode. He flips the file open and the Asset’s breath stalls as he catches sight of a horribly familiar picture.

 **Howard Stark** _,_ the file reads.

 _Birth:_ August 15, 1917

**Maria Stark**

_Birth:_ April 23, 1920

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *swings this chapter at you like a bat* Here you go!  
> Anyway…  
> So I heard that in the comics Bucky manages to go rogue during the 60s or 70s for a little bit, so this is my headcanon for that. Pierce is just so terrible, ugh. But I’ve always wondered why the Russians chose Sputnik as Bucky’s shutdown protocol, since it’s such a symbolic word from the late 50s - early 60s, and I imagine the rest of his trigger words were developed in the late 40s - early 50s.  
> Meanwhile Beck was a little shady, which is hardly a surprise. And. You know. We gonna hafta deal with Howard now so… *edges away*


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the memory continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Vomit

He forgets all about trying to alter the memory. His mind completely frozen as he stares open-mouthed at the scene in front of him. Stark seems frozen as well, and they both watch as his holo-self continues to read the file, the pages showing pictures of a blue serum and a road map. It’s almost meaningless to him though; his mind still stuck on the first part he’d seen. _Howard Stark,_ the file had said and his mind flashes back to when he had asked JARVIS about the man— the man who is Stark’s father and who had died in 1991—

He is suddenly distinctly aware that he had never asked JARVIS _how_ Stark had died, nor had he asked after Maria. He’d known that she had died, but he had never asked _when_ , he had assumed it would be a different date than Howard’s but—

In front of him, the hologram continues torturously, and the Asset watches almost in a trance as his holo-self stands up from the calibration chair and is led to be outfitted for the mission. His face remains mostly blank as his handlers issue him weapons and bark orders at him (a small distant part of the Asset notes that his holo-self isn’t given any long-range weapons, which means he is expected to get up close to the Target—)

The hologram shifts and they pack the holo-Asset into a plane, one of the agents pushing him down so that he can fasten the clamps around his arms and legs. (Yes – he remembers the clamps; Hydra had had them in their vans too sometimes. They aren’t much different from the ones on his chair but sometimes they would dig into the flesh of his arm and he would wonder if he was supposed to free himself should the vehicle crash, or if he should just wait for his handlers to return because he’s not supposed to fight the clamps—)

The BARF tech must be playing with time again because the plane lands in no time at all and the holo-Asset is shuffled off into a waiting van, his handlers hissing last-minute directions and updates in Russian about the Target’s position—

(The Target who is Howard Stark, his ally and weapon supplier and his handler’s friend and Stark’s father and—)

The van begins to drive, and the Asset finds himself shaking as he watches his holo-self sit blankly inside. In the back of his mind he knows— he knows what his mission is and what is going to happen but part of him can’t help hoping desperately that the scene isn’t going to end with— with—

He sucks in a breath as the van stops, his stomach twisting uncomfortably and his heart pounding as he watches the holo-Asset step out. Apparently an agent had been following behind on a motorcycle and they trade off, leaving the holo-Asset with the motorcycle and a few last updates before driving off, trusting him to get the mission done alone.

The holo-Asset flicks his eyes impassively around the trees that line the dirt road in front of him for a moment before leaving the motorcycle and scouting out ahead. He comes across some sort of facility next to the road, and he pulls back into the trees as his eyes catch sight of a security camera set up by the gate.

He stares at it for a few moments before retreating back to the motorcycle and settling down to wait, his eyes focused dead ahead of himself, seemingly unbothered by the dark or cold of the night around him. The Asset doesn’t know how long he’s left there to wait, because the BARF tech takes care of that, and before long, the sound of an oncoming car fills the air. The Asset’s breath stutters as he watches wide-eyed, his holo-self leaning forward on the motorcycle as he readies himself to follow.

He remembers—

— _follow the car, the serum should be in the trunk – but no witnesses, so take out the driver and passenger. He must stop the car. But first wait, wait until—_

The holo-Asset revs his motorcycle and pulls up beside the car, using his metal arm to smash in the passenger window, causing the car to swerve and crash—directly in front of the security camera. The front of the car crumples with a screech of metal, and a fire sparks as the holo-Asset pulls back around to park the motorcycle by the wreck, his face continually blank.

He gets off smoothly and marches over to the back of the car, using his metal hand to pull open the trunk and reveal a metal briefcase inside. He snaps it open to confirm what he’s looking for and finds five blue bags of serum nestled inside. He reaches for it, only to freeze at the sound of something scraping across the gravel, and he darts his head up, his brow twitching just slightly as he steps around the totaled car to see—

— _serum acquired, good. Mission accomplished— Wait, no. Targets did not die on impact. Mission: sanction and extract, no witnesses—_

His holo-self steps up to Howard, who has somehow managed to pull himself out of the wreck, his movements slow and laboured, his nose bloody and his gaze unfocused as the holo-Asset reaches down to—

The Asset stumbles back, his shoulders hitting the wall behind him as he reaches up and snatches off the glasses, his breath coming out of his mouth in short, choppy pants as the scene in front of him dissolves into nothing. The loss of the hologram does nothing to block the newfound memories that flood his mind though, and he chokes as he—

— _grabs the Target by the hair and_ _hauls him up_ , _pulling his arm back. The man breathes in wetly, his eyes blinking sluggishly as he stares up at him._

_“Sergeant Barnes?” The voice is full of disbelief and confusion, and it stabs at something that he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what it means and he— he— What— What does that—_

_No witnesses – no, no witnesses—_

_“Howard,” the woman in the car moans, still alive, despite the crash._

_No witnesses, no witnesses—_

He coughs and gags, collapsing down onto his knees as the images flash through his brain. _Howard_ , the woman had said. It had definitely been Howard, even though he had been older and greyer and bloody and– the woman too, he has to—

— _he grins as he looks over Howard’s shoulder, the man busy trying to figure out how to fire-proof Steve’s suit because Steve is an_ idiot _and needs constant supervision._

_“Maybe you could add in a leash or something,” he jokes. “Something that hooks into my suit and then–”_

_“Oi, shush,” Steve snaps from where he’s holed up in the corner of the lab, sketchbook in his lap as he nurses a bandaged arm, a mock-glare on his face. “Medical says it’s not that bad and with the serum I’ll be healed within a day—_

_—he can feel his nose break under the weight of his metal fist and—_

He throws up.

His whole body shudders and his eyes well up as he coughs, and acid stings his nose, the scent of vomit sharp and distinct against everything else. He retches again and pulls away, sucking in a breath that turns into a ragged sob, his arms shaking as he tries to hold himself up. His flesh hand comes up to wipe his mouth before he realises that he still has the glasses clutched in his grip.

He drops them with a gasp, and from the fog of his current mental state he can hear Stark’s voice, sharp and thin. “Beck —— out, get—— water or something.” The Asset sucks in a breath, his vision swimming as he tries to breathe, the bitter taste of acid burning the back of his throat. Beck must leave because the next second Stark’s tight voice is back, asking JARVIS to keep him out of the room and to– “Call Stev—”

“No!” Horror rockets through him and he snaps his head up, swaying slightly as he tries to find Stark on the other side of the room. “No please, he can’t know,” he begs, his chest heaving and his vision blurring as he shrinks down into himself, his hands shaking. “He can’t— please—”

Tears fill his eyes and he shakes his head, his hands coming up to tug at his hair as he ducks his head into his chest. He’d— he’d— he’d— killed Howard, his ally, one of his handler’s friends, Stark’s father and he— and his handler will be so _mad_ —

He gasps for air again and draws further into himself, Stark’s presence on the other side of the room seeming to cut into him without even trying. He’d killed both Howard _and_ Maria— both of them—

Across from him, he can hear Stark breathing, the man muttering a string of numbers under his breath as he cycles air rhythmically. “Okay, okay.” The Asset looks up to see Stark also on the floor, his back pressed against the leg of the table holding the computers, his eyes squeezed shut. He breathes in again, muttering the numbers one-to-four as he does so, before holding his breath. He breathes out after a few seconds and opens his eyes, his hand shaking as he presses it to the middle of his chest. “Look,” he says tightly, his other hand making a fist in his pantleg. “Look, Steve already knows, okay? Hydra gave us a file so–” He sucks in another breath and the Asset stares at him, his heart pounding loud in his ears.

Handler-Steve already— no no no that is _not_ _good_ — Handler-Steve and Stark already know and— He finds his arms hugging around his chest and stomach, as if to protect himself, his mind spinning as he stares at Stark, panting. They know he’d killed Howard and Maria and—

— _Handler-Karpov smiles pleased, when he hands the serum over, back at base. “Отлично, Солдат,” he says._ Well done, Soldier _._

_A handler from the mission steps up to whisper something in his ear and his expression hardens before he turns to hand off the serum, demanding to be shown whatever the agent had been telling him about. The Asset stays still, breathing shallowly as he waits to be dismissed back into cryofreeze. He’d completed the mission, he’d done well, he’s finished now—_

_(There’s blood still, in the grooves of his metal hand, they haven’t washed him down yet and there’s blood still–)_

_Across the room, Handler-Karpov snaps something sharp and angered, and the Asset darts his eyes over to him, careful not to move his head. His stomach drops as he catches sight of the mangled remains of the roadside security camera._

_He’d shot it down— of course he had, no witnesses, no witnesses— but he hadn’t destroyed it and he’d had to report it to his handlers when they had come to extract him and then_ they _had had to grab it because no witnesses—_

 _Handler-Karpov is speaking to the agent in low, rushed tones that he can’t understand— and he shouldn’t be listening anyways because that’s not his_ job _— but he watches from under his lashes as the two of them work on hooking up the camera to one of their monitors. Something runs cold and terrible through him when he realises that they will be able to review the mission. (He should have destroyed it, why hadn’t he destroyed it—)_

 _They manage to get it connected, visual only, and Handler-Karpov watches it, his arms folded over his chest, his face a solid block of stone. His jaw flexes as the video ends and he turns to look over at him, his eyes dark. “Солдат, давай!” He barks, pointing at a spot on the floor next to him._ Soldier, come!

_He complies, dread swimming in his stomach as he marches over and plants himself next to Handler-Karpov, his eyes skating over the grainy black and white image on the screen in front of him. Handler-Karpov’s eyes are sharp and hard as he orders the other agent to replay the video again and he points at the screen, the Target’s mouth just barely discernible as it moves, speaking to him in the moments before his death._

_“Что он сказал?” Handler-Karpov snaps, his finger continuing to point accusingly at the screen._ What did he s _a_ y?

_He swallows and darts his eyes back and forth between Handler-Karpov and the screen, anxiety twisting around in his gut. His handler is mad but he doesn’t know why, and the words that the Target had said – he doesn’t know what they mean – he doesn’t know why they’re so important but— Handler-Karpov narrows his eyes and ice shoots down his spine. He’s taking too long to respond._

_“Он сказал Sergeant Barnes,” he says quickly, the words feeling awkward and strange in his mouth. Instantly he knows that whatever he’d said is_ very bad _because Handler-Karpov’s face twists into something sour, his lips pulling back into a snarl before he backhands him sharply._

 _Pain arches up his face and down his neck as he stumbles away, confusion and fear clouding his thoughts. He doesn’t— he doesn’t know_ what those words mean _, but they’re bad and the Target had said them but he doesn’t know_ why _—_

 _“Отведите его в исправительные камеры,” he hears Handler-Karpov say as he recovers._ Take him to the correctional cells. _Panic grips his chest as a set of guards step towards him and he_ —

“Barnes, come on–”

Stark’s voice breaks into his reality and he sucks in a breath, the sharp scent of vomit greeting him again as he hunches over, pulling his metal arm into his chest. (There’s blood in the grooves of his hand and he needs to get it out but they won’t let him _wash_ first—) He gags and whimpers, Howard’s confused voice echoing through his head.

 _Sergeant Barnes_. He’d called him by the title he’d used with Handler-Steve because Howard had been his _ally_ but he hadn’t known— he hadn’t known what it had meant— he didn’t— didn’t know why Handler-Karpov was so _mad_ —

“I’m sorry,” he finds himself saying, his words barely comprehensible between his gasping breaths. “I’m sorry, I didn’t— I didn’t know, what— what he said— I didn’t—” He sucks in a breath that is more like a sob than anything else and closes his eyes, the room spinning. “I didn’t know what it meant— but they were— so angry – but I didn’t—” He cuts off because he can’t breathe, and he chokes because he can feel Maria’s neck under his hand and he—

 _Sergeant Barnes,_ Howard had said, using the title his handler had given him, probably trying to get him to stop because he’s his _ally_ and he— he should have stopped but he— he didn’t know what it _meant_ — he didn’t know and there’s blood on his hand and— and—

Stark is counting and breathing again and the Asset swallows back a wave of nausea, a steady beat pounding in his head as he fights to catch his breath. His hands shake as he wipes the back of his metal hand on his pants over and over again, trying to get it off because he can still feel it— still feel it stuck in the grooves— feel it crawling up his arm, under his skin— and he needs to get it out—

“Barnes, look, I can’t—” Stark sucks in a slow breath and lets it out again, and when the Asset looks up at him, his eyes are closed, one hand resting on his chest. He opens his eyes and his gaze seems to skip off him, his hand tightening on the fabric of his shirt as he focuses down on his knees, still breathing. “Look, I can’t deal— with this right now,” he says. “Let me call Steve, and then you can talk to him and I will go call Pepper and talk to _her_ and we’ll–” He sucks in a breath and waves his hand, his jaw flexing. “And we’ll deal with this later just— just not right now. Ple _a_ se.”

He doesn’t want to call Handler-Steve – doesn’t want to admit to him what he’s done – but according to Stark, Handler-Steve already knows, and of course his handler should be notified about something like this and Stark looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but here—

He finds himself nodding, and something in Stark relaxes just slightly. His gaze doesn’t quite meet his as he shakily pulls himself off the floor and asks for JARVIS to call for Handler-Steve, his hand trembling as he runs it through his hair. For his part, the Asset presses back into the wall, his entire body seeming to shake as he tries to breathe and wait for his handler to come.

(They had been so mad, so mad about the words and the camera, but he hadn't known what they meant— hadn’t known why it was so _bad_ —)

Handler-Steve doesn’t take long to arrive, his face tight and pale with worry as he pauses to speak a few words to Stark, their conversation is completely lost on the Asset as he finds his pulse redoubling at the sight of his handler, a rushing noise filling his ears as he clutches at his shirt collar, trying to breathe. His handler clasps Stark’s shoulders and says something before letting the man go, and the Asset barely registers him leaving the room because his handler turns to him and—

“I don’t— don’t know what it means,” he babbles in between breaths. “I don’t— _Я не знаю. Я не знаю. Пожалуйста.”_

“Okay.” His handler raises his hands, palms out in a non-threatening gesture, and he crouches down a few feet away from him (a safe distance – he’s too far away to reach him he can't–) “That’s okay, that’s fine.” His handler’s voice is low and smooth, but his face is creased with worry. “Can you breathe for me instead, Buck? We’re going to work on breathing.”

His handler sucks in a slow breath and holds it for a second before letting it out again, his shoulders moving up and down as he breathes. “Just like that,” he says, demonstrating again. “Can you breathe with me Buck? Try to breathe in with me.”

He tries, but his breaths are too short and rapid and he can’t even follow his handler’s _orders_ —

“That’s okay, that’s okay,” his handler says, his body rocking for a moment as if he wants to move forward but thinks better of it. “Let’s just try again okay?” he says imploringly. “We’ll keep breathing ‘til we get it, alright?”

He tries again and he keeps his eyes fixed on his handler’s chest and shoulders as they go up and down with each breath. He sucks in air and swallows back the saliva thick in his mouth, blinking as he tries to keep his eyes focused, the fingertips of his right hand feeling numb as he braces himself against the floor and tries to hold his breath for the few seconds that his handler does. The breathing is important—

— _“That’s right Stevie,” he says, his hand rubbing over the bony ridge of Steve’s spine as the boy hunches over, his breath wheezing thinly in and out of his mouth. Internally, he winces at the sound, his pulse pounding a little harder at the possibility that Steve’s airway might close up completely because then there will be nothing he can do— But externally he tries to remain calm, rubbing his hand over Steve’s back again as he counts the breaths for him. “You’re okay—_

“You’re doing good, Bucky,” his handler says to him as he sucks in another breath, his metal hand tugging on his pantleg as he forms a fist, his entire being focusing down on breathing. Why is it so _hard?_ He breathes all the _time_ and it’s never this hard _._ (Except for when he’s coming out of cryofreeze, sometimes it’s so cold and he can’t move and he can’t _breathe_ —)

“Bucky, Bucky,” his handler’s voice cuts in as he begins to spiral again and he tries to focus on his voice, his hand pressing down on his leg as he shakes, his breath thinning. “Bucky, can you tell me the colours again? What colours do you see?”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before darting them around the room, trying to find a colour to settle on. His eyes feel like their straining as he tries to focus them and a headache pokes at the back of his eyeballs. But he finds a colour.

“White,” he gasps, referencing the walls of the room and his handler nods, asking him for another colour. He pants out a few more breaths, his eyes on his handler’s shoulders as they continue to move up and down expressively and he tries to remember the colour of his handler’s shirt. “Blue.”

“Good Buck,” his handler says intently, breathing in with him. “What else can you see?”

He blinks hard in an effort to focus better, his eyes not wanting to cooperate, before he catches sight of his metal arm fisted in the fabric of his pants. The same metal arm that he had used to smash in the car window and the same arm that he had used to drag Howard back to the car—

“Colours Buck,” his handler cuts in and he squeezes his eyes shut, suddenly hating his metal arm and wanting it _off_ more than he can ever remember having done before.

“Silver,” he gasps out finally, his hand clenching as he tries to keep breathing. His breath catches in his throat and he can feel his eyes grow hot, his throat seeming to swell and grow tight as he tries to swallow, his free hand moving to dig into his hair as he tries not to think about what he’s done—

“Bucky,” his handler’s voice is low and pained and the Asset’s fingers tighten in his hair. “Bucky, can I hug you, please?”

The request is so unexpected that he actually looks up, his gaze catching on his handler’s own gut-wrenching one. He stares, not quite sure how to react as he turns the words over in his head. He’s— he’s never— his handler has never touched him like that before, none of the Avengers have, and part of him doesn’t want to say yes because he’s still aware of the puddle of vomit a few feet from him and he doesn’t want his handler to have to come any closer to that, but he _also_ remembers how grounding it had been for him when his handler had simply leaned against his shoulder and he can’t help thinking about what a hug might _feel_ like—

Of course he doesn’t exactly know if he _deserves_ a hug, but his handler looks so sad and his chest hurts and he really really wants—

He finds himself nodding, his breath catching on another sob and his eyes prickling as his handler slowly eases over to him, never getting up off his knees as he settles in front of him. “Tell me if you need to stop,” he says softly as he leans forward, his right arm coming up to wrap around the Asset’s shoulders and the side of his face pressing into the Asset’s neck.

The Asset shudders and he finds himself instinctively reaching up to wrap his arms around his handler, his eyes brimming and finally overflowing as he clings, his handler carefully bringing up his other arm to finish the hug, the weight of it solid and heavy and _warm_ —

Something cracks open inside him and he sobs, in great undignified gasps that would never have been acceptable anywhere else, but his handler doesn’t reprimand him, doesn’t care even though he’d— even though he’d—— He finds himself rambling, stuttering out apologies and explanations in garbled sentences that spend half their time in the wrong language, and he buries his face into his handler’s shoulder, shaking and clinging harder as his handler brings up a hand to press against his hair.

“I know Buck,” he says roughly, his voice thick and wet with tears. “I know. It's okay, I’m sorry.”

Eventually, he wears himself out. He sits, a deadweight against his handler, his breath hiccupping every once and a while as he stares blankly ahead of himself. His mind feels drained. At this point Howard and Maria’s death and his own actions in it feels almost immaterial, removed from him somehow, like he’s just watching the fact settle into his brain, sinking into him without actually touching him.

He doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to think about the fact that Stark and his handler had known the whole time what he’d done and they had still let him come live in the Tower, still let him move around freely and go outside even, they hadn’t even taken away his _weapons_ , just left him alone and told him to _live._

Stark’s earlier avoidance of him makes more sense, but it only makes Stark’s more recent interactions with him more confusing. Stark had purposely chosen to initiate conversations with him and had offered up his tech to help him and had _sat in_ on those sessions when he could have probably asked someone else to do it and— and no _wonder_ he was so uncomfortable when he had been trying to express his growing confusion and guilt over Hydra’s missions.

 _Do you remember all your missions?_ he’d asked, as though it was just another question, as though his own parents hadn’t _been_ one of the Asset’s missions, as though he hadn’t—

A thought crosses his mind and he shifts, his throat feeling raw as he swallows and tries to speak around the congestion in his nose. “Is… is this why I’m not allowed to go on missions?” he asks, his face still pressed into his handler’s shoulder, his stomach dropping as he thinks over his statement. Of course the Avengers don’t want him on their team— why would they want someone like—

His handler’s arms tighten around him as though the question physically pains him. “No Buck,” he says instantly. “No. Never because of anything you did. Never for that reason.”

He doesn’t really understand because he can’t fathom how this kind of thing wouldn’t factor into his worth as the asset, but he can’t really think about that right now because suddenly his handler’s embrace becomes too much.

It had been good, it had, but now his chest suddenly feels tight again and the arms around his shoulders and his handler’s face are too close for comfort, his skin crawling rather than being relieved by the proximity. He moves instinctively to draw back, but he freezes almost as quickly, suddenly unsure if he should end the hug or just let his handler continue. His handler obviously _wants_ this, the move seems to comfort him too, and the Asset has already distressed him enough, he can probably stand to just sit here and wait—

He doesn’t have to decide because almost as soon as he starts to get uncomfortable, his handler is pulling back, dropping his arms and leaning away from him, revealing his own red eyes and blotchy face as he does so. He wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand and offers the Asset a smile that seems more of an instinctual reaction rather than an actual display of feeling, and the Asset finds his hackles beginning to lower again, now that there’s some space between them.

His handler sucks in a slow, calming breath and rubs his hands along his pantlegs, wiping at his eyes again before rolling his shoulders and looking of at the Asset. “I know… this is really hard right now,” he says gently, his eyes glistening. “I can’t even imagine what this is like for you… but, I do know that having an attack like that is really exhausting.” He offers another half-hearted smile. “We’ll keep working on this, of course, but…” He shifts. “Right now I bet we could both benefit from drinking something maybe, and laying down.”

The Asset blinks tiredly and nods. A very small part of him wonders at who is going to clean up after all this – the BARF tech is still out and the mess he’d made is still on the floor – but the rest of him doesn’t care. His mind and body feel heavy and sluggish as he stands up to follow his handler out of the room, and he barely even registers the route back to their room.

The lights are dim when they get inside, which a small vague part of him appreciates, but the rest of him feels almost disconnected from everything as his handler hands him a glass of water and sits him down on the couch. He drinks some of it, and it helps wash away the bitter taste left over from his episode, and he finds his throat dryer than he’d been expecting, but he also finds his eyes zoning out and slipping closed, the effort of staying awake almost too much to bare.

Hands take the glass from him and he finds himself being gently nudged over so that he’s laying down on the couch, a blanket getting settled over his shoulder. “It’s okay Buck.” He hears his handler say. “You can sleep now. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hands you a chapter of pain and sadness*  
> Poor Bucky and Tony though, honestly.  
> But Steve and Bucky finally got to hug! That’s… good, right?
> 
> As you can probably tell, we will be dealing with the aftermath of this chapter for a while. Tony— while he didn’t attack Bucky because he’s had some time to deal with the initial shock of everything and such— is still greatly affected, and he and Bucky will eventually have to deal with it. And of course, Bucky hasn’t really done much to deal with anything either.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset tries to cope.

He’s still tired when he wakes up, his mind sluggish and disorientated as he recovers from the first nap he can ever remember taking. The world stays that way, lethargic and slow, as he gets up at the prompting of his handler. It’s supper time now, apparently, and he can feel his handler giving him worried glances as he prepares something for them, but he hardly feels like eating, let alone talking or engaging with anything right now.

He eats the food his handler gives him, because of course he does, but he hardly tastes any of it, and he moves through the after-dinner rituals in a sort of haze, his body moving without really engaging his mind at all. He dries the dishes as usual, but finds himself staring at the sink afterwards as his handler lets the dirty water drain.

The back of his left hand itches, even though he shouldn’t be able to feel anything like that, and he finds himself setting his towel aside and moving to stand in front of the sink, his right hand reaching seemingly on its own for the dish soap. He pours it onto his left hand liberally, only half-conscious of his handler standing back and watching him as he rubs the soap over the grooves of his hand, reaching forward to turn on the water again because he needs to get it off— needs to get it out, needs to make sure—

It doesn’t hurt, washing his hand, because he’s mainly focused on his left one and that one doesn’t exactly feel pain. Pressure it can feel, of course, or else he wouldn’t be able to shoot with it, but he can’t really feel the heat from the water or the slickness of the soap as he washes, even though he can still feel the blood caught under the grooves of his knuckles, probably built up in places he can’t see because the whole stupid arm is a series of interlocking plates—

He blinks and comes back to himself, his hands still wet and soapy as his handler slowly reaches around him and switches off the tap. He blinks again, and he isn’t sure how much time has passed, the colours around him suddenly brighter as he turns his head to look at his handler in confusion. Water drips off his hands into the sink and his hand still isn’t clean, he needs to clean it, needs to make sure—

“Mind telling me what you’re doing?” his handler asks quietly, his eyes flicking over him. “You’ve been washing your hands for a while now.”

The Asset breathes in slowly, his hands continuing to hang limply over the sink, the steady drip of water down the drain filling the silence of the room around him. “I have to wash it off,” he tells his handler, his eyes focusing somewhere past his shoulder. His left hand twitches and he rubs his thumb over the back of his knuckles. “Gotta wash it off.”

His handler stares at him for a moment before glancing down at his hands. “Wash off what, Bucky?” he asks, his voice as soft as ever.

The Asset flinches, his hair swinging down to shield his face as he ducks his head. “Th’ blood. Howard’s blood,” he says tightly, his hands clenching at the edge of the sink. “They didn’t let me wash it off first, I gotta get it off.”

His left hand twitches again and he probably would have started scrubbing at it again if his handler hadn’t reached forward and gently taken it for himself. “Bucky, your hands are clean,” he says softly, trying to catch his eye. “If you keep going like this, you’ll hurt yourself.”

The Asset tries to shake his head because his metal hand can’t hurt, he doesn’t have to worry about that, but his handler reaches for his other hand, running his thumb over the reddened skin, agitated thanks to the hot water and vigorous rubbing. The Asset blinks, staring at his hand like he’s never seen it before. He hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t been paying attention to his right hand, he hadn’t even felt it.

His eyes jump back to his left hand. “It’s in the grooves,” he explains, his eyes pinned to their clasped hands (his handler shouldn’t be touching them, his handler shouldn’t have to touch—) “It’s in the grooves. I can’t get it out.”

His handler’s hands tighten just slightly on his and his lips press together, his throat flexing as he seems to swallow down his words. He breathes out after a second and loosens his grip. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Okay, how about this?” He looks up at the Asset. “Can I help you? Get it clean? You won’t be able to get into the grooves with just soap and water.”

The Asset blinks at the unexpected offer and he opens his mouth in surprise. He blinks a few more times and closes his mouth before finally nodding, his brain thrown for a loop at the change in plans. His handler gives him a relieved smile, his shoulders loosening as he takes a step back, letting go of his hands.

“Great,” he says, seeming genuinely pleased. “Why don’t you sit down by the table while I go get some stuff.”

The Asset nods, still feeling slightly dazed as he steps away from the sink and watches his handler head towards the bathroom. He breathes in slowly, drying his hands before finally moving to sit on one of the stools by the counter where he and his handler normally eat, being careful to sit so that his left hand can rest easily on the counter next to him.

His handler comes back soon enough, a box of q-tips, a washcloth and a bottle of cleaning alcohol in his hands. His lips twitch up in a reflex smile as he sets the items down on the counter and moves to the kitchen to fill a glass with water. Once finished he comes back and sets the glass down and the Asset watches as he reaches for the alcohol, pouring a small amount into the water, the scent of it sharp to the Asset’s sensitive nose. His handler wrinkles his own nose before replacing the cap of the bottle and finally sitting down, his hands running restless over his jeans as he looks over at the Asset.

“I figured this would work a little better,” he says, reaching up to open the box of q-tips and pull out several of the cotton swabs. The Asset swallows, watching his handler’s measured movements, some of the torment in his mind starting to calm at the serious and thorough response from his handler. His eyes flick down to his left hand as his handler reaches for it, wetting one of the q-tips in the alcohol solution with his other hand and bringing it to the first joint of the Asset’s thumb.

His brow furls in concentration as he carefully manipulates the joint, working the cotton around so that it can pick up any debris inside before flipping the swab around and drying it. He discards the q-tip and moves on to the next joint of the thumb, his process just as slow and methodical as before. The Asset watches in silence, part of him stunned at the amount of care his handler seems to be putting into the procedure. The q-tips come out mostly white, very little grime having made it into the joints and grooves of his hand because there simply isn’t _space_ , but still, his handler continues, his pile of used q-tip’s growing as he follows the lines of metal along the back of the Asset’s hand.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says quietly as he gets started on his pointer finger, and the Asset can feel himself tense slightly at the approaching topic. He curls his right hand into a fist by his knee and looks down, his handler continuing to work over his joints, the light, constant pressure of his hands helping to keep him grounded as he thinks. He swallows and doesn’t look up, keeping his eyes pinned on his handler’s knees, a few inches from his own.

“I didn’t stop,” he says faintly, his world zeroing down to just the feel of his handler’s hands on his own. “He said the words but I didn’t stop.”

His handler doesn’t look up from where he’s running a q-tip over the knuckle of the Asset’s middle finger. “What words?” he asks softly, tilting the Asset’s hand so he can clean by the base of his finger.

The Asset’s right hand tightens, and he clenches his jaw, still not looking at his handler. “Sergeant Barnes,” he says, flinching, his heart skipping a beat at the words. He breathes in. “He called me that but— but I didn’t know, what it meant.” He swallows. “Hydra gave me a mission and I didn’t try to fight it even though he said the _words._ ”

His handler pauses and looks at him for a moment, his eyes flicking over him before he sets down his q-tip and gets a new one. “You know…” He says slowly. “Sergeant Barnes isn’t—” The Asset flinches again and his handler’s hand tightens on his before relaxing again. He seems to scan him for a second before going to wet his q-tip. “That— those words aren’t trigger words,” he says, not looking up as he starts on the Asset’s ring finger.

The Asset sits still, letting his handler manipulate his finger as he contemplates what he’s been told. He’s not exactly sure why he’d assumed Howard’s words would have triggered something. Maybe it was because they were the words his handler had used, ones that Hydra obviously _didn’t_ , and Howard must have said them for a _reason_ —

“You can’t say you didn’t fight either,” his handler says, his hands tightening for a fraction of a second before he continues cleaning, something hardening in his gaze. “You did fight,” he says, his eyes still focused on his work, and the Asset stares at him, wondering if his handler knows something he doesn’t, because he certainly doesn’t _remember_ having tried to fight Hydra’s mission. “I— Hydra gave me a file,” his handler says, his cleaning suddenly becoming even more thorough as he speaks. He flicks his eyes up to him. “Did you know your first mission wasn’t until 1953?”

The Asset shakes his head mutely, his eyes wide as he tries to guess where his handler is going with this. His handler drops his eyes and discards his used q-tip and reaches for another, shifting his grip to start on the Asset’s pinky finger.

“That’s eight years,” he says softly. “It took them almost a decade before they could get you to do what they wanted.” He looks up again, his hands pausing. “Five of those years they had you in cryofreeze while they built and tested that blasted chair, but that’s— that’s three years of you fighting back and having to be conditioned. You can’t say you didn’t fight.” His voice hardens determinedly and his jaw flexes. “The only reason you didn’t fight it with Howard is because they literally _burned_ it out of you.”

His handler’s gaze is sharp and intense, his eyes filled with a deep kind of righteous anger that the Asset knows instinctively is not directed at him, and he sits in stunned silence, staring into his handler’s eyes as he tries to come to terms with everything he had just been told. He swallows, opening and closing his mouth a few times and his eyes flicking minutely over his handler as he tries to reconcile his own thoughts with his handler’s words.

“I don’t understand,” he admits quietly, watching as his handler goes back to working on his little finger. “Why— why did Hydra have to build the chair?”

His handler pauses again and looks up at him, his brows furling slightly in confusion. “They wanted to wipe your memory,” he says slowly. “Keep you loyal to them.”

The Asset swallows and focuses down on his hand, his confusion only growing. “I know,” he says, he knows the protocols he’d needed to operate, that is not the problem. “But why did Hydra have to _build_ it? Wouldn’t they have gotten it and my protocols from my previous handlers?” He looks up.

 _Wouldn’t they have gotten it from you?_ he thinks, because if Handler-Steve had been his handler before, and Hydra became his handler later, then surely Handler-Steve would have transferred everything to them— but of course that doesn’t make sense because they were _fighting_ Hydra and the Asset had been fighting them _too_ —

His handler’s eyes widen, and he seems to still, his hand tightening over the Asset’s as he stares at him, even his breath seeming to freeze. The Asset eyes him apprehensibly, trying to assess his condition (the breathing is important after all), and his handler blinks, breathing in quickly through his nose before looking away, running his thumb over the ridges of the Asset’s hand. He lets out a slower breath and the Asset relaxes slightly as his handler seems to calm down.

His handler’s jaw flexes for a moment and his eyes stay focused off to the side, his gaze somewhat troubled. After a few seconds he looks back, his eyes meeting the Asset’s before flicking down to their clasped hands. “No,” he says softly. “Nobody _gave_ Hydra the chair or your protocols because—” He breathes in. “Because you didn’t have that before,” he says stiffly and the Asset blinks in surprise. “You didn’t have any maintenance protocols before,” he continues. “Hydra made that up after they captured you.”

For a second he looks like he wants to say more, but he swallows heavily instead, pressing his lips together and flicking his eyes up to watch him.

The Asset, meanwhile, can feel his eyes widen as a few more puzzle pieces of his mental map click into place. He hadn’t realised he hadn’t had any maintenance protocols before working with Hydra, he’d just— he’d just assumed that that had always been how he’d operated. But if that’s true then that— that means he really _doesn’t_ need those protocols to function, he’d functioned without them _before_ , he hadn’t had them until he’d been—

His mouth opens, his pulse suddenly loud in his ears as he stares at his handler. “Captured?” he says quietly, his mind buzzing. Suddenly a _lot_ of things make a _lot_ more sense—

His handler nods, dropping his eyes back down to his metal hand, working the q-tip around the third joint of his pinky finger. “I don’t know if you remember this or not,” he says roughly without looking up. “Me and you were on a mission, trying to capture Zola, one of Hydra’s scientists.”

The Asset tenses slightly, his mind flashing to a small man with round glasses and buggy eyes, his smile a little too big as he straps him down, prattling away about serums and soldiers and Hydra—

“We were on a train,” his handler says, continuing to work on the third joint, even though it’s probably clean by now. “We only had a short widow to capture him and—” He swallows. “We got into a firefight. A hole was blown into the side of the train and–” He clenches his teeth for a moment, his hands stilling as he seems to stare emptily at the Asset’s hand. “You fell out,” he says finally, something aching and forlorn in his voice. “I tried to get to you but—” He shakes his head and swallows heavily.

The Asset blinks, and for a second there’s—

— _biting wind and snow blowing over his face and freezing metal under his hands and Steve’s terrified face above him—_

He blinks again because he’s pretty sure he’s already seen that flashback before, near the beginning of his stay at the Tower. In front of him, his handler breathes in slowly and finally discards his q-tip, grabbing another and turning over the Asset’s hand to start working on the lines of his palm.

“You fell,” his handler says, almost swallowing his words as his throat flexes. “I didn’t know— I didn’t know you’d survived and we still had to chase Hydra, so Command said we couldn’t look for you and—” His cleaning stops as his hand tightens again and he looks up, something almost pleading in his gaze. “There was a Russian team nearby, so they told them to look, just in case – just so that we could have your _body_ – but they _said_ that they didn’t find anything. I thought you were _dead_.”

The Asset watches as his handler draws back slightly and breathes in, trying to calm himself. His grip loosens again as he looks down. The Asset swallows. “They… they found me though,” he says slowly. “Didn’t they? And they brought me to Hydra.”

His handler nods and the Asset finds himself relaxing, breathing out as questions he hadn’t known had been bothering him suddenly receive answers. He’d been confused as to why his handler would have ever transferred him over to Hydra when they had been enemies, but now he knows that he _hadn’t_. He’d been _stolen_ , and Hydra had had to develop new protocols and trigger words for him because no one had been there to transfer authority to them, he’d had no reason to listen to them and he had tried to fight them because they _weren’t his handlers_.

Tears prick at his eyes again and he looks down, watching in silence as his handler continues to clean out his hand, feeling overwhelmed by the kindness of his handler, the magnitude of his revelation and the implication it has on his past missions. “I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to fight for Hydra,” he says, his voice thick in his throat.

His handler sets aside the last q-tip and grabs the cloth, wiping it over the metal of his hand. “I know,” he says softly. “It wasn’t your fault, Bucky. You were just doing what you were taught. It was all you remembered.”

He drops his gaze and swallows, unable to meet his handler’s eyes. What he says might be true but… but he’d still done it. He’d still fought for Hydra and killed so many people for them, including Stark’s parents. And that… He swallows again. Stark had said that they would ‘deal with it later’, and he doesn’t know what to think about that.

oOo

He sleeps a lot after that. He can’t exactly explain why he’s so tired, but he has almost no motivation to do anything beyond laying in his bed. His handler gets him up regularly to eat, which means he also has to get up to go to the bathroom, and his handler orders him to shower at one point, so he does, but other than that, he spends the next day and a half on the couch.

His handler is worried about him, he knows he is. He seems to have a permanent crease between his eyebrows whenever he looks at him, and at one point, the Asset hears him in his room, talking worriedly over the phone with someone, but even his handler’s concern isn’t enough to move him.

If he were with Hydra, his behaviour would be absolutely unacceptable. His handlers would have forced him into action and punished him if he were ever so lazy as now… But he _isn’t_ with Hydra. He was never even supposed to have _been_ with Hydra. Hydra had _stolen_ him from his handler, and then retrained him and told him that he was helping people, but really every mission they had sent him on had been _wrong_.

That’s the hardest part honestly.

Every mission, every target. All of it, everything Hydra had done and had him do, he’d been supposed to fight it and he hadn’t even _known_. He’d just— He’d just _done_ it, because— because if he hadn’t then, he would have been _punished_.

He still doesn’t remember all his missions. Honestly, he’s not sure how he will know if he ever remembers all of them, but the ones he _does_ remember consume his thoughts while he lays blankly on the couch during the day, and then consume his dreams while he sleeps.

His sleep schedule is all messed up now and he wakes up in the afternoon, the sun reflecting in the windows of the buildings across from him as he slowly sits up and leans against the arm of the couch. A sound from the kitchen startles him from his haze and he looks over, blinking in incomprehension when he sees Wilson sitting on one of the stools, his phone in hand.

The Asset stares at him for a while, his unexpected presence throwing him for a loop. Eventually he flicks his eyes around the room, noting the lack of his handler’s presence, his brain gradually working up to curiosity. He licks his lips. “Where’s Handler-Steve?” he asks finally, his voice grating dryly in his throat.

Wilson looks up from his phone, a calm expression on his face. “He went to go check on Tony,” he says, his foot swinging from its perch on the stool. “He asked me to be here in case you woke up.”

The Asset nods dully and turns back to face the living room, glancing emptily over the skyline outside the windows. Behind him, he can feel Wilson watching him, but he finds he doesn’t care very much, and eventually the man goes back to his phone as they both wait for his handler’s return.

He chews on the inside of his cheek and can’t help feeling guilty as he processes what Wilson had told him. His handler is checking on Stark because the man had also been affected by all this. He’d said that he’d already known about the nature of his parents’ death, but the idea of that is so… The implications of that… He swallows and grits his teeth. He understands better now, why Stark had originally avoided him, but he can’t understand why Stark had let him stay in the Tower in the _first_ place, let alone reach out to him like he had.

Even with Stark’s past hospitality, who knows if that will continue now, and the Asset is probably putting his handler in a difficult position (although part of him finds it hard to understand why his handler would have difficulty choosing between him and his friend.) But… he swallows nervously as he thinks over the possible response from Stark and the rest of the Avengers. He doesn’t know if they all know what he’s done, but even if they don’t, they will probably find out soon and then…

 _They don’t have a chair_ , he reminds himself. They don’t have a chair because Hydra had built that themselves, so if the Avengers or Stark want to punish him, they will have to do something else. He tries to relax back into the couch and work on preparing himself for whatever they might choose. As long as he can keep his memories – even the painful ones about Howard – then he will be fine, he can handle whatever they do. He doesn’t think they have cryofreeze here, or even a brig so—

His speculations get cut short as the door to the apartment opens and he turns his head to see his handler returning. He blinks in surprise as, behind his handler, he catches sight of Romanoff as well. His eyes track her as she follows his handler into the room, and he can’t help wondering why she’d come with him.

His handler pauses next to Wilson’s chair, but Romanoff continues on her course, marching right up to the back of the couch and looking down on him. “Come on,” she says, her voice holding no room for argument. “Let’s go for a walk.”

The Asset blinks at her, and then flicks his eyes over to his handler, searching for a reaction. He doesn’t really want to go on a walk right now with Romanoff, so if his handler tells him not to, then he’d be fine with that. Of course, he’d go if his handler said to, but Handler-Steve’s face remains frustratingly neutral when he looks over to him, and he has to look back over to Romanoff without any extra clues as to how to respond.

Romanoff folds her arms and settles in with a look on her face that says she’s willing to wait for him as long as it takes, and a flicker of irritation flares up in him before it just as quickly gets smothered by resignation. He lets out a quiet breath that is almost a sigh and levers himself off the couch, turning to face Romanoff. He happens to be wearing a long-sleeved shirt already, so he doesn’t need to get changed to go out, which is good, he supposes. He doesn’t really understand why she wants to go on a walk _now_ of all times, but at the same time he doesn’t really care.

Romanoff nods at him and drops her arms, turning to walk back towards the front door. The Asset follows tiredly and lets her lead them silently all the way to the elevator. She pushes the button for the ground floor, and they ride the elevator all the way down, the Asset staring quietly off to the side, trying to keep his mind mostly blank.

It used to be a lot easier.

Romanoff doesn’t speak at all as they exit the Tower and begin to make their way down the street, following the familiar path to Bryant Park. It’s the same route he takes with Dr Banner to get to the library right next door, and people line the sidewalks and cars wiz past as he walks next to Romanoff, but he doesn’t pay them much mind.

“You’re worrying Steve, you know,” Romanoff says suddenly, and he glances over, finding her gaze still focused on the path ahead. She shrugs. “He’s trying not to make it obvious, and he won’t say what happened. But judging from the fact that Stark is shutdown and holed up in his labs, I’m guessing it has something to do with something you both saw with BARF.” She flicks her eyes over to him for a brief second before looking back in front of herself.

The Asset swallows without saying anything and sidesteps a slower pedestrian who is more focused on their phone than walking as he thinks over Romanoff’s words. He knows his handler is worried for him. In all honesty it’s a little bit of a foreign concept, since he’s pretty sure none of his other handlers ever really _worried_ for him, and he doesn’t really _like_ worrying his handler, but he doesn’t really know what to do with the things he’s learned and the confrontation he knows is coming with Stark.

He shoves his hands in his pants pockets and looks down at his feet, his eyes skating over a discarded cigarette butt. Next to him, Romanoff remains silent and he swallows again. “I wasn’t supposed to do my missions with Hydra,” he says softly, barely audible above the street noise around them. “I didn’t remember, but now I do.”

 _And I killed Stark’s parents_ , he thinks, pressing his lips together, not about to share that mission if Romanoff doesn’t already know about it. _And I didn’t even know it was_ wrong.

Beside him, Romanoff looks down, her hair slipping out from behind her ear and blocking his view of her face as they continue to walk, a bubble of silence amid the busy street life. After a few minutes, Romanoff reaches up and tucks her hair back behind her ear and rolls her shoulders, sticking her hands in her pants pockets. “You know,” she says quietly without looking at him. “You know I'd never had a birthday before I joined SHIELD?”

The Asset’s brow furls slightly at the unexpected subject, but he shakes his head, watching as Romanoff shrugs her shoulders again. “Clint organised it for me,” she says, continuing to stare straight ahead. “I don’t actually even know when my exact birthday is, the Red Room wasn’t really big on that sort of thing.” She looks over at him for a moment before looking away. “They picked me up when I was a kid,” she says. “I don’t really remember much before them.”

She looks up at the sky for a moment and the Asset remains silent, Bryant Park coming into view in the street ahead of them. He’s not exactly sure where Romanoff’s story is going, but she obviously has something to say, so he waits for her to begin again.

Romanoff looks down and moves seamlessly out of the way of a wandering pedestrian before stopping at the crosswalk, her eyes focused on the entrance of the park as they wait for the light to change. “The Red Room taught me everything I know— everything I knew,” she says, her gaze on the red traffic light. “They were strict, ruthless, and there was no room to question the morality of their missions.”

The light changes and the Asset steps out onto the road with her, their steps in sync as they cross the street. “Having a conscious wasn’t really encouraged with them,” Romanoff says as they step up from the curb and head towards the entrance to the park. “But…” She shrugs, looking down. “I learned anyways.”

The park is lined with massive trees and their leaves filter out the sun, casting leafy patterns on the wide sidewalk as he and Romanoff begin to amble along the path, sidestepping other park-goers walking around or sitting in chairs. A cool breeze rustles the leaves and fans out Romanoff’s hair, causing it to twist out in wisps.

Her mouth twitches. “By the time I broke with the Red Room… I'd already gotten onto SHIELD’s radar, in a bad way.” She turns her head to look across the field in the middle of the park, her voice growing quieter. “They sent Clint after me, and I expected to be killed. I didn’t really see any other option.” Her mouth twitches again, this time with amusement. “Clint made a different call though,” she says, pulling her hands out of her pockets to rub at her wrist. “And he managed to convince both me and SHIELD to give each other a try.”

She shakes her head. “At first I thought I could do it. I was a good fighter, and now I could fight for the _right_ side, and I thought if I worked hard enough, I could prove myself to them in no time, I thought I knew where I stood…” She shrugs and looks back towards the field. “Except… SHIELD wouldn’t send me on any missions.”

The Asset turns his head and blinks at her, her story suddenly feeling very familiar. He swallows and watches as the wind catches her hair again, the strands sparkling brightly in the flickers of sunlight shining down from between the trees.

Romanoff huffs and puts her hands back in her pockets. “Instead SHIELD insisted I do things with my handler that I thought were pointless. Things like find and rent an apartment, grocery shop and choose a wardrobe.” She rolls her shoulders. “I could do all those things for missions if I needed to,” she says. “But I didn’t understand why I needed to do them for myself. I could be so _useful_ for SHIELD, and all Clint wanted to do was watch movies with me and walk his dog. And _he_ wasn’t even my handler.”

She lets out a breathy laugh, more air than anything else, and her mouth twitches ironically. “When they finally took me on my first mission…” Her voice drops and she looks down. “I did it. But I broke down after,” she admits. “All of the sudden, every mission I’d ever done with the Red Room was so much more _real_. I’d done terrible things and I'd hardly even _cared_.”

The Asset swallows and watches her stare at the cobblestones under their feet for a while. Eventually she sucks in a breath and shakes out her hair, casting him a glance before looking ahead again. “They told me it wasn’t my fault,” she says quietly. “That the Red Room had been brainwashing me since childhood, and that I couldn’t be expected to resist them under those circumstances.”

She stops walking abruptly and turns to look at him. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I still did it,” she says, and the Asset feels his breath stall in his lungs as he stares at her, his eyes wide. He nods subconsciously, unexpected relief flooding through him at the sudden knowledge that Romanoff _understands._ She _knows_. 

His handler had said that it hadn’t been his fault, but that doesn’t change the fact that every single one of his missions had still _happened_ , all those people are dead, and nothing he can do will change that now. Whether or not it had been his fault, he’d still _done_ it, and nothing will change that.

Everyone will still be dead. Stark’s parents will still be dead.

Romanoff nods and looks to the side. “Of course,” she says quietly. “Being upset about it won’t change it, and the choice comes down to either wallowing for the rest of your life or finding something to move on with.” He stares at her and she looks up at him. “I’m not going to say it gets easier,” she says, something deep in her gaze. “But…” The wind whips her hair again and she reaches up to tuck it away. “After a while… it doesn’t hurt so much.”

oOo

After that, he does his best to check back into life again. The death of Stark’s parents and his work with Hydra still sits like an aching wound in his chest, but he slowly accepts the invitations of the other Avengers to begin his training again. None of them seem to know exactly what had happened between him and Stark (and part of him wonders if they would be so accommodating if they knew what he had done), but they all seem to do their best to be gentle with him.

He does his best to avoid Stark. Not that it’s very hard really, since Stark doesn’t seek him out, and the Asset studiously keeps away from the garage. He knows that Stark will confront him eventually, and his handler is sure to keep an eye on his teammate, but the Asset feels no need to approach Stark any sooner than necessary.

Just over a week after the initial incident, he finds himself alone in his handler’s room. Handler-Steve is back at one of his doctor’s appointments, and the Asset’s walk with Bruce had left him with about half-and-hour to himself. He finds it harder than before to find the urge to keep busy, so he’s simply sitting on the couch when JARVIS calls to him.

“Sergeant Barnes?”

His whole body jerks as he flinches, his breath catching in his throat and his heartbeat doubling as he cringes into the couch, his mind flashing back to—

— _pain, and anger, and he doesn’t know why those words are so bad but his handler_ hates _them so much and he will never never say them again_ —

He gasps and finds his arms drawn up to shield his head before he can even think. “Don’t—” He shudders. “Don’t. Call me that.”

JARVIS is silent for a moment and the Asset works on trying to breathe properly again. Reminding himself that Handler-Karpov isn’t _here_ , and that Handler-Steve doesn’t carry a leather strap at _all_ and that he’s _fine_. He sucks in a slow breath and drops his arms, running a shaky hand through his hair as he sits up, his shoulders hunched.

“Do you have another name you would prefer?” JARVIS asks finally, and the Asset twitches at his words. He opens his mouth before finding himself speechless, his mind suddenly completely stumped.

He knows he could simply say ‘Bucky’. His handler calls him Bucky all the time, and so do most of the other Avengers, so, logically, he could ask JARVIS to do the same. Wilson had once asked JARVIS to call him ‘Sam’, so it’s okay to ask for something like that but… But, he doesn’t feel ready for that. Something about the name Bucky is… something about it is _important_ , and he doesn’t know what it is yet, and he doesn’t think he can ask JARVIS to use that name until he knows for sure what it means.

But, he finds he can’t quite get himself to ask JARVIS to call him ‘the Asset’ either.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, his heartbeat almost back to its original tempo.

JARVIS is silent for a moment longer before speaking up. “Is the single word ‘Sergeant’ acceptable?” he asks, and the Asset waits for the onslaught of panic to hit him again at the word. He tenses slightly, but other than that he feels fine, and he relaxes again, taking in a breath.

He nods, breathing out in relief. “Yes,” he says. “That’s fine.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” JARVIS promises. “However, my original purpose in calling you still stands.” He pauses for a moment and the Asset looks up, waiting to hear what he has to say. “Sir has asked to see you,” JARVIS informs him, and a block of ice hits his stomach, throwing off the careful breathing rhythm he’d managed to achieve. “He is waiting for you in the garage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Bucky is working on coping with what he’s learned. I know it might have seemed a good opportunity for Steve to tell Bucky that he’s, you know, a person in this chapter, but it actually isn’t. Bucky’s already gone through something shocking and traumatizing today, destroying everything he believes is probably not a good idea. But, he does know he wasn’t ever SUPPOSED to be with Hydra.
> 
> I thought Natasha would be good at helping him. In this AU, Bucky didn’t teach her in the Red Room, because that hasn’t been made canon in the MCU yet, but their experiences are similar. 
> 
> Anyway, now that Bucky’s on semi-stable ground he has to go talk to Tony.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset goes to see Stark.

Dread swirls around in his stomach but he stands, nodding mutely at JARVIS before turning to head out of the room and make his way to the elevator, accepting his fate like a man heading for the gallows. He’d known Stark would want to see him eventually, he'd been prepared for that, but that doesn’t stop the anxiety that swirls around in his gut as he waits for the lift to arrive at the garage.

He swallows and shifts his stance, clasping his hands behind his back and breathing in through his nose. He doesn’t exactly know what to expect from Stark right now. He wouldn’t be surprised to be met with anger, Stark has every right to be furious at him, given what they had learned, and although his heart pounds faster at the thought, he knows he can take whatever punishment Stark has in mind.

He just hopes he doesn’t kick him out of the tower. The thought sends licks of ice-cold fear shooting down his spine and he tries to shove it away. If Stark doesn’t want him in the tower anymore, he really doesn’t know what he will do. His handler will most likely stay with his team, but the Asset isn’t supposed to be left on his own, so their only choice would be some kind of holding cell for him—

His train of thought gets cut off as the elevator slows and the doors ding open, revealing the cement floor of the parking garage. He swallows and takes in one last breath before stepping out and sweeping the area with his eyes.

Stark is sitting on a metal stool in the maintenance corner of the garage, the large metal table separating him from the Asset. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he looks tired, his fingers tapping restlessly against the table and causing a dull ringing to sound out through the garage. His eyes flick up as the Asset enters and the Asset finds himself stumbling to a halt, unable to come any closer as Stark looks him over.

They sit like that for a while, the Asset’s right hand growing clammy as he tries to tap into the calm place he used to be able to go to when Hydra had been angry with him. It had been easier when he could just detach himself and accept his punishment quietly, because when you know a punishment is coming, there comes a point when getting upset about it becomes pointless.

That’s what he wants now. For Stark to get whatever he has in mind _over_ with, so they can move on from it. That’s what always happens. He does something wrong and then he’s punished and then they stop being mad at him. (He cannot begin to imagine what kind of punishment could make up for what he’s done to Stark, but whatever it is, he’ll just have to deal with it.)

Stark seems to just be staring at him though, without actually _doing_ anything, and if this goes on for much longer the Asset is pretty sure his heart is going to pound its way into a heart attack. Dread twists in his stomach and he swallows, clasping his hands tighter behind his back as he steps towards the table and focuses his gaze on a point above Stark’s head. His hands are shaking, hidden from view, and he feels almost lightheaded with nerves, but if he has to get it started, then he will.

“The Asset is ready for punishment,” he says to the spot on the wall, the words like acid in his throat and his hands painfully tight behind his back as he works on keeping his breathing regulated. Fear crawls up and down his spine, but he can do this. This is _fine_. He just has to survive this like _everything else_.

Stark seems to give a start at his words and the Asset doesn’t move his gaze as he feels Stark look him over. His heart pounds and he feels sick and he _hates_ this so much, but he also can’t get the image of Stark’s father out of his head and he’s certain that Stark feels the same way.

“Wow,” Stark speaks finally, his hands still on the table. “Heck’ov a conversation starter you got there, Barnes.”

The Asset blinks slowly, trying to process Stark’s words and watching out of the corner of his eye as Stark runs a hand through his hair with a weighty sigh. The Asset swallows carefully and breathes through his nose, clenching his jaw along with his hands as he tries to settle into himself. He doesn’t really know how to respond to Stark right now, but generally that isn’t a requirement for situations like this.

In front of him, Stark slumps slightly on his stool and seems to grind his teeth as he scans the Asset, an unreadable expression on his face. His eyes flicker and his hands tighten on the table before he looks away and lets out an explosive breath. “Okay look—” He grimaces and runs another hand through his hair before looking back at the Asset. “Look, I’m not going to–” He gestures vaguely, a tight look on his face. “I just want to talk, okay? So just _relax_ for a second, alright?”

The Asset finds his eyes dropping down to look at Stark without his permission and he stares, confusion sweeping through his brain like a wave. Stark’s words make no sense to him and he has no idea what to do with them. He stays silent, but allows himself to look at Stark, trying to read the man as confusion replaces some of his overwhelming fear.

Stark lets out a long drawn out sigh that turns into a groan as he rubs a hand over his face. The exasperated sound doesn’t really bode well, but the Asset tries not to tense since Stark had asked him to relax and the man doesn’t seem currently bent on disciplining him. Across from him Stark looks up and rubs his hand over his mouth, seemingly unsure of what he wants to say.

“Okay,” he starts suddenly, pressing his hand against the table. “So. I’ve been doing my best to deal with this like the ‘mature adult’ that I am, _and_ I’ve been working really hard on that and I’m going to be _pissed_ if this drops in and goes and ruins everything I’ve been working on so–” He shrugs and breathes in slowly. “So… I know I can’t expect to get over this right away and I can feel whatever I want and whatever.” He waves a hand and the Asset watches it carefully. “But _anyway_.” He looks up and catches his eye. “I have questions that are bothering me, and if we want to move past this then we’re going to have to talk about it so…” His mouth presses up into something that isn’t really a smile. “Here I am.”

The Asset’s throat flexes as he swallows, his eyes flicking over Stark, still at a loss. Stark looks back at him for a moment before licking his lips and tapping his fingers anxiously against the table, his gaze jumping around the room.

“Right, okay,” he says, sitting back slightly and looking up at the Asset. “I guess we’re doing this.” He clenches his jaw for a second before breathing out through his nose and rolling his shoulders. “Okay, so. I’m just going to preface this by saying that I’ve known about this a lot longer than you.” His anxious tapping turns into something rhythmic and he catches the Asset’s eye. “I’m guessing you didn’t remember it until we triggered it with BARF, yeah?”

The Asset nods silently and Stark nods back, his eyes dropping down to his hands. “That’s what I thought,” he says, without looking up. “See, I knew about this back at the beginning of the year, when Steve got your file. So…” He shrugs, his head still down, the scratches on the table seemingly very interesting. “So I kind of figured it was going to come up eventually.” He looks up finally and the Asset can’t read his expression.

Stark sighs and drags his fingers through his hair, looking off to the side. “I had a plan for this,” he says. “I had ‘coping mechanisms’,” his fingers make air-quotes as he speaks, and the Asset follows their movement with his eyes. “I was prepared,” Stark says. “I knew this was going to happen.” His lips press into a line. “I just didn’t really appreciate the whole, almost watching the thing.”

The Asset winces and darts his eyes away. He hadn’t really enjoyed it either, although he’s now glad that he had taken the BARF glasses off before Stark could get the chance to actually see him murder both his parents. Stark could have also shut off the projection from his own console, but he gets the impression the man had been just as immobile with shock as _he_ had been so…

“But. Anyway.” Stark’s voice takes on a forced sort of nonchalant quality as he sits up and straightens his shoulders. “I have things I’m doing to deal with it,” he says decisively, catching the Asset in a solid stare. “I’m not saying this is all going to go away, or that I don’t need time but…” He raises his chin. “I’m not going to hurt you. So, you can forget about that.” He nods stiffly, like they’ve just made a deal. “I just have some questions.” 

The Asset can feel his mouth open slightly in surprise as he gives Stark a stunned look and the man twitches his mouth upwards at him. The Asset finds his shoulders relaxing, if only slightly, as he finally lets his chin drop so that he can look at Stark comfortably.

Stark seems to relax a little as well at the Asset’s response, and he rubs his hands together as he darts his eyes around the room. “Alright,” he says. “I’m sure this is going to be a _fun_ conversation but–” His mouth twitches slightly. “I promised I’d do it. So–” He breathes in and presses his hands against the table. “I was wondering…” He huffs out a breath. “After we saw the hologram, you said something.” He looks up at him for a second and taps his fingers on the table. “You said something about, ‘not knowing what he said’ or ‘what it meant’. And then you said ‘they’ were angry, so I was just…” He trails off and shrugs, looking away. “Well, I just couldn’t get that out of my head.”

The Asset shifts his stance and tries to think back on the horrible moment with the BARF tech. It’s mostly a blur to him, he’d been panicking so much that he isn’t exactly sure what he’d said or done, but he _does_ remember some of the flashbacks it had triggered, and he’s pretty sure he knows what Stark is referring to.

He’s asking about the words.

His stomach twists sharply and he swallows uneasily before taking in a determined breath and squaring his shoulders. He doesn’t want to talk about the words, he really doesn’t, but… if he owes Stark anything, he can at least give him this, and answer any questions he has. He clenches his jaw because it’s hard to get started, and he finds himself looking down as he speaks, his hands squeezing together behind his back.

“Howard knew me,” he says quietly, his stance stiff. “He knew the words Handler-Steve used, but I didn’t know what he meant.” He looks up at Stark, the man seemingly frozen now that he’d started speaking. “Handler-Steve told me they weren’t trigger words, but Howard said them anyway, and I didn’t know what they meant.”

Stark’s mouth opens for a moment before he actually says anything. “What words?” he asks finally.

Anxiety cuts through his gut and the Asset swallows nervously, darting his eyes away from Stark as his heartbeat picks up the pace. He opens his mouth for a second before closing it again, trying to work up the resolve to say the words. He knows, he _knows_ he won’t be punished for the words here, they are Handler-Steve’s words, so of course he won't be punished. But he still…

He breathes in carefully and clenches his hands, focusing his eyes on a spot on the floor. “He said… he said ‘Sergeant Barnes’,” he gets out finally, his shoulders hunching despite himself as a deep shaking settles into his bones. “He said the words, but I didn’t know what they were and there was the camera–”

He looks up at Stark, suddenly desperate to explain. “The mission was for the serum,” he starts. “Sanction and extract. No witnesses. I thought— I thought maybe they would die in the crash but they didn’t so I had to—” He breathes in shakily and his hands drop out from behind his back so he can tug at the bottom of his shirt. “There was supposed to be _no witnesses_ ,” he says, his eyes focusing on his hands. “Except there was a camera. So I had to take down the camera too.”

He looks up and sways for a second because he gets the urge to pace, but he also doesn’t want to encroach on Stark’s space. Ultimately he clenches his jaw and stays where he is, his right hand shaking as he fiddles with his shirt. “I didn’t destroy it though,” he says tightly. “I— there was supposed to be no witnesses, but I didn’t destroy the camera, so I had to tell my handlers and then _they_ went and got it because there was s’posed to be no witnesses.”

His breath is feeling rather short, and he breathes in, trying to calm himself, shifting his stance as he speaks. “I didn’t destroy the camera, so they had it, and they watched it,” he explains tightly. “They watched it and they saw he had said something to me so they asked—” His voice chokes out for a second and Stark opens his mouth, seeming ready to say something, but the Asset doesn’t give him the chance, determined to get the story done and over with.

“I told them, what he said,” he says, his gaze flitting down to rest on the table by Stark’s elbow. “I didn’t know what it _meant_. I didn’t know why they were so angry but they _hated_ the words.” He swallows, breathing in. “Handler-Steve said they captured me, and— I think they didn’t want me to know his words, but I _didn’t_. I didn’t know what it was, or why it was so _bad_.”

He breathes in and clamps his mouth shut, raising his gaze to see Stark’s reaction to his story. Stark stares at him, his eyes flicking over him as he thinks, his hands lax against the table in front of him. After a moment, he flutters his eyes in a blink, giving his head a shake and seeming to pull himself into working order. “Wow,” he says quietly, his eyes still on the Asset. “I remember, in the file Steve had, it said they thought you might need more ‘conditioning’, because you did everything in front of a security camera…” He presses his lips together. “I guess they went through with that.”

The Asset nods sharply, looking down, his fingers squeezing on the hem of his shirt as he tries not to think about the efforts Handler-Karpov had gone to, to teach him how wrong those words had been. He’s only grateful that once he had changed handlers, he had been allowed to forget about it until now, or else he and JARVIS probably would have gotten off to a poor start.

“Why _didn’t_ you destroy the camera?” He jerks his head up to look at Stark, his mouth opening as he tries to come up with an answer. Stark scans him for a second and shrugs. “I mean, in the hologram we saw, you definitely knew it was _there_ , you scouted ahead and saw it.” He catches his eye and seems to stare into him. “So I’m just wondering… why you crashed the car in front of it in the first place, let alone left the thing intact.”

The Asset stares back, his brain seeming to stall as he tries to come up with a response. “I… waited to crash the car,” he says slowly, the realisation dawning as he speaks. “I waited, so that it would be in front of—” He flinches and shakes his head. “But the mission was _no witnesses_ ,” he says, his jaw flexing as he looks at Stark. “No witnesses. So I had to get rid of the camera.”

Stark looks back at him. “But you didn’t destroy it.”

“No,” he says tightly. “No. So I had to report it to my handler, because the mission was—”

“No witnesses,” Stark cuts in, a thoughtful look in his eyes. He scans him for a few moments longer before shifting in his seat, tapping his finger against the table. “So… you crashed the car, in front of a camera you couldn’t leave up because of your mission protocols… but you didn’t destroy it.” He flicks his eyes over the Asset and tilts his head. “Why not?” he asks. “Leaving it intact wasn’t allowed. You had to tell your handlers about it so that you could complete your mission… so why not destroy it yourself?”

The Asset breathes in and shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says thinly, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I don’t— mission failure is not _allowed_.”

“Right,” Stark says quietly, a glimmer of something deep in his eyes as he looks at him. “Right. But you still did everything in front of a camera, and you didn’t destroy it, even if you couldn’t keep it hidden from your handlers. You _did_ leave a witness, even if it was only for your handlers to see.”

The Asset stares at him, completely frozen, his mind seemingly rebelling at Stark’s words. Every time he tries to think over his logic behind the mission his thoughts seem to jump away. He doesn’t want to think about why he might have left the camera intact because if there is a reason, then that would mean he had been resisting his mission and failing Hydra and that isn’t _allowed_.

He breathes in sharply and lets it out slowly, trying to slow his thoughts down. “I don’t know,” he says to Stark again, trying to explain. “I— knowing is… is dangerous. Resistance is unacceptable.” He shakes his head. “I don’t— mission failure is unacceptable.”

He swallows and looks down. He understands what Stark is implying. He’d seen the camera and he hadn’t avoided it, if he’d truly wanted to complete the mission to the best of his abilities then he would have crashed the car anywhere else— or he would have destroyed the camera— but… but he really doesn’t know. He’s spent years very carefully _not thinking_ things because if he thought them then he’d have to acknowledge them and then he would get into trouble because some things are not _allowed_. 

“You can’t know,” Stark says, his eyes on him. “Because if you thought about it then it would be real, and then you would have to stop.”

The Asset looks back at him and presses his lips together, his hands pressing into his stomach. “I don’t know,” he says carefully, even though he’s pretty sure Stark is right. Stark stares at him for a long moment before he finally gives him a slow nod.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay.”

A calm sort of understanding seems to relax and settle in between them, and the Asset breathes in, feeling almost lightheaded at the release of tension. Stark sits back and slumps slightly, looking almost dazed as well, and the Asset scans him, still slightly stunned at the thought that the man truly just wants to talk to him right now.

Comparing his reaction to the actual _death of his parents_ with Hydra’s reaction to two simple words… it’s hard to think about, let alone comprehend. He can’t understand why Stark isn’t set on punishing him right now. He now knows that he wasn’t even supposed to have done _any_ of his Hydra missions, yet no one seems inclined to discipline him and make sure he doesn’t do it again. Instead everyone seems intent on being uncomprehendingly kind to him, and even Stark treats him better than he probably deserves.

He flicks his eyes over the man and finds himself biting his lip, his hands still on the hem of his shirt as he tries to make sense of him. Stark had said that he and Handler-Steve had known about his missions this _whole_ time, yet Stark had still let him in the tower, had helped him with the BARF technology, and had let him work on his _cars_. And so far, he hadn’t asked for anything in return.

He presses his lips together and breathes in. He doesn’t understand, and he doubts he’ll be able to figure it out without asking, which is definitely _not_ something he wants to do… but it is something he thinks he _can_ do. So far, no one in the tower has gotten mad at him for anything (and if Stark gets mad at him now, he won’t blame him), so he’s probably safe to ask the question, even if every bit of training he’d ever received is against the idea.

He clenches his hands on his shirt for a moment before taking a very small half-step forward and drawing Stark’s attention to him. He opens his mouth for a second before closing it and wincing slightly, his brain struggling to come up with a ‘safe’ way to phrase his question. Thankfully, Stark stays silent, his brows drawn together slightly in confusion, but not anger. (He hopes.)

“I have a question,” the Asset finally manages to get out, closing his mouth as he waits for Stark’s response. Across from him, Stark stares for a few seconds before he blinks and seems to realise that some sort of reply is needed on his part.

“Oh. Sure.” He waves his hand in a sort of ‘go ahead’ gesture. “Fire away, I guess.”

The Asset nods and breathes in, his eyes moving instinctively to focus away from Stark’s face. Part of him wants to pull his hands behind his back again to stand at attention, but he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself more than necessary, so he doesn’t. “I…” He flicks his eyes to Stark for a second before darting them away again. “Why… did you let me stay in the tower?”

He watches Stark from the corner of his eye, and judging from the man’s shocked expression, his question is unexpected, and the Asset rushes to explain further. “When I came, I thought I would get another cell, like at the Vault,” he says, careful not to look away from his point on the wall. “But Handler-Steve let me sleep on the couch, and let me have blankets and good food.” He swallows, privately hoping that none of that is about to change now. “But I wasn’t supposed to do the Hydra missions and—” He drops his eyes and finds his voice growing quieter. “And I killed your parents.” His shoulders tense as he speaks. “So I don’t understand why…”

He risks glancing up at Stark, and the man is looking at him with a mixed expression that he can’t quite read. Eventually, Stark breathes out and runs his hand along the edge of the table, looking down. “Man,” he says, almost to himself. “Aren’t you a tragic piece of work, Barnes.”

The Asset blinks at him, unsure how to respond, and Stark looks up, his face smoothing out as he breathes in and sets his shoulders. “Okay, for one thing.” He raises a finger. “Everybody deserves blankets and food. That’s non-negotiable.” He raises a second finger. “Two…” He puts his hand down and rolls his shoulders. “Okay, so I’ll admit I had some reservations letting you come stay here. But…” He looks up. “Well, we didn’t exactly have a lot of options you know, and besides…” He shrugs one shoulder and looks to the side a little. “Steve’s happier with you around so…”

He shrugs again and his mouth twitches a little as the Asset watches him. Stark looks at him for a moment and huffs out a breath, shaking his head as he runs a hand through his hair. “I mean, you’d understand if you’d seen him,” he says, leaning forward so that he can rest his elbows on the table and support his chin. “I mean, we’re all a little messed up around here, and it wasn’t exactly obvious right away but–” His eyes grow slightly distant and he looks past the Asset. “I don’t know. You’d just look at him and it was like he was only halfway there or— or like he was one of those cardboard cut outs that they sell in stores.”

He licks his lips and the Asset stares at him, his eyes wide as he takes in what he’s hearing, Stark’s words matching up with the look he sees on his handler’s face sometimes, and the one he’d seen in some of his flashbacks. Stark lets out a sort of bitter laugh and taps his fingers against his chin. “I don’t exactly know what SHIELD was doing with him, but like, he came to the tower with a _bag_ and a _box_. Like, that was literally everything he owned, and he just looked—”

He cuts himself off and sits up, pressing his hands facedown on the table. “Anyway.” He rolls his shoulders. “I’m not exactly good with that kind of stuff, but it was better than dealing with _my_ stuff, so I tried.” He waves one hand at the Asset. “And whaddya know, it didn’t blow up in my face and Rogers is looking a bit more 3D these days, so…”

The Asset nods slowly at him. Stark’s words make sense. He doesn’t exactly know _why_ his handler seems to care so much about him, or why he’s… happier, as Stark says, around him (or why his handler had been in such a poor condition in the _first_ place… that is something he will need to look into) but if he can help his handler, then that is _good_ , and if Stark wants to help his handler, then that is _also_ good.

Across from him, Stark puffs out his cheeks and lets out a gust of air. “Okaay, good talk,” he says, standing up abruptly from the stool. “But that’s about as much emotions as I want to deal with today so…” His mouth twitches in a sort of half-smile-that-isn’t-really-a-smile, and the Asset is quick to move to the side so that Stark can get by him, being careful to leave plenty of space between them, since even if Stark doesn’t want to punish him right now, he still isn’t sure how comfortable the man is around him.

“See you later,” Stark tells him decisively as he passes, and the Asset blinks at him, his eyes following Stark silently all the way to the elevator.

oOo

Things stay quiet for a while after that. The Asset continues his training with the other Avengers, and his handler continues to allow him all the privileges he had come to enjoy in the tower. He doesn’t see Stark much, only in passing a few times, but his handler keeps in regular contact with the man, and the Asset is slowly able to come to terms with the fact that Stark’s reaction to his actions is not going to be like what he’s used to.

He still has trouble with his own memories of the incident, and one day, in an effort for peace, he manages to work up the courage to ask his handler to draw him a picture of Howard. Actually, he asks for one of both Howard and Maria, but his handler tells him that he hadn’t known Maria. Even so, Handler-Steve accepts the commission and the Asset waits for it as patiently as possibly, hoping it will give him something else to think about besides his Hydra mission when he thinks of Howard.

A few days after his initial request, his handler hands him a stiff sheet of paper, the black and white image of Howard looking through a pair of goggles at something traced out in bold pencil. The Asset looks over it reverently, before glancing up and noticing that his handler’s eyes are slightly redder than they usually are.

He watches as his handler turns away to head to the kitchen, and after a moment he follows, the picture held carefully in his hands as a revelation dawns. He stops by the counter and watches as his handler begins the familiar motions of making tea, the mug clinking as he takes it down.

The Asset swallows, thinking back to the few flashes he has of Howard before his mission. “He was your friend,” he says quietly, and his handler pauses in his movements, before starting up again after a few seconds. The Asset watches him, thinking over his statement. Of course, he’d known it before, he just hadn’t thought a lot about what it _means._

“I knew him,” his handler says finally, his eyes focused on his task. “I worked with him, and I respected him.” He breathes in and shrugs as he looks down at his cup, his hand resting on the kettle without actually using it. “I think… he changed, from when I knew him but…” His mouth twitches. “I never saw it. He was just… gone, like everyone else, so…” He shakes his head and finally pours the water for his tea, resting his mug on the counter as he waits for it to steep. His eyes grow distant as he waits and his hands tighten on the counter beside him before he blinks and looks at the Asset, his mouth twitching into something close to a smile. “Guess I haven’t really had a lot of time to think about it.”

The Asset swallows and nods. He doesn’t exactly know what his handler is referencing, why he hadn’t been around for Howard’s later life, but sadness twists in his stomach as he realises that he’d taken Howard from his handler, as well as Stark.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, and his handler looks up, flashing him a warmer smile than before, his shoulders moving as he breathes in a calm breath and turns to grab his tea.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly.

oOo

It isn’t until about mid September – almost a month since the initial incident – that Stark calls him down to have another BARF session. He’s apprehensive about accepting since it would be the first time he and Stark had spent a lengthy amount of time together since their _last_ session and he isn’t exactly sure what to expect. He goes anyways, because of course he does, but he finds himself a touch more anxious than he usually is as he walks into the white-walled room.

Beck is already there, fiddling around with the computer, and the Asset can hear him muttering to himself under his breath. “It’s about _time_ we got back to testing,” he hears him grumble, a slight scowl on his face. “This isn’t just going to develop _itself_.” His mouth twists, and his fingers tap a little harsher than necessary on the keyboard. “Especially if we’re not allowed to _use_ it for long periods of time.”

He seems to be talking around the Asset again, so he leaves him be, silently moving forward to grab the glasses from the edge of the computer console, before walking to stand in the middle of the room. Beck’s murmurings cut off and his mouth presses into a thin line as, a minute later, Stark breezes into the room.

“Oh good, you’re here,” he says as he catches sight of the Asset, his eyes only resting on him for a second or two before they dart off to somewhere else. He makes his way quickly over to his chair by the computer and sits down, his hand coming up to rub briefly at the center of his chest. “My six-week recovery period is almost over,” he explains neutrally, casting the Asset another brief glance. “So I figured we should get some sessions in before I get sent into the field.”

The Asset nods at him and relaxes slightly at the casual air around Stark. He’s still not exactly sure how the man feels about him and he’s not naïve enough to think that Stark is completely comfortable with him, but the man seems willing to work with him professionally, which is more than he’d been expecting.

With a final fortifying breath, he slips the glasses on and waits as Beck starts up the computer, internally bracing himself for when Stark lists off the trigger words. The machine hums and he blinks in surprise as a hologram begins to flicker into view, without any trigger words and without his conscious thought. His mouth opens in surprise, but he doesn’t try to stop it. The BARF tech often seems to pick up on his more subconscious impressions, and he’s curious to see what it will show him.

His holo-self solidifies, standing in a crowd of people while wearing an unfamiliar brown uniform, complete with an off-kilter cap and golden buttons. The scene must be from before his handler got big, because little-Steve stands behind his holo-self, looking towards the stage in front of them which holds a shiny red car with several showgirls posed in front.

 _“Ladies and gentlemen,”_ a woman’s voice announces from a speaker somewhere. _“Mr. Howard Stark!”_

His eyes widen and his breath catches slightly at the name, and he watches as a confident man dressed in a suit steps onto the stage, flirting briefly with one of the showgirls before taking the microphone and turning to address the crowd.

 _“Ladies and gentlemen_ , _”_ he says, his voice full and cocksure of himself. _“What if I told you, that in just a few short years, your automobile won’t even have to touch the ground… at all.”_ He sweeps his arm out and the crowd gasps as his showgirls step forward to remove the wheels of the car and reveal some kind of device underneath.

Howard flashes the crowd a gleeful smile and steps towards a control panel next to the car. Anticipatory music plays from the speakers in the room as he slowly pulls a lever, and the car hums as it begins to ever so gradually raise itself up and hover above the ground.

Back in the crowd, his holo-self and his handler watch the car in awe. _“Holy cow,”_ he hears his holo-self mutter as he looks over the scene, an impressed gleam in his eye. After a moment, the strange devices spark and give out, sending the car crashing to the ground, much to the shock of the crowd. Howard plays it off with as much grace as possible, but the failure doesn’t seem to lessen his holo-self’s enjoyment of the show.

The Asset breathes out and reaches up, gently removing the glasses and folding them, looking up to see Stark’s reaction to the scene. It had been unexpected, but not wholly improbable. He supposes it’s natural for the BARF tech to have picked up on his conflict over Howard’s death, he’s just glad that it had given him a new positive memory to think of him by.

Across from him, Stark watches the fading scene with something almost wistful in his eye. After a few moments he blinks his way out of it and looks up to catch the Asset’s gaze properly for the first time since the session had started.

“Well,” he says, the word seeming to burst out of him. His mouth twitches into a crooked smile and he taps his fingers over his knee. “Guess those flying cars were real after all.”

The Asset blinks for a second before he remembers the scene from when he had almost escaped Hydra and Pierce had tried to disregard his fledgling memories. A smile breaks over his face before he can stop it, and something warm wells up in his chest as Stark relaxes back into his chair, something new beginning to grow between them.

“Yeah,” he says, looking down at the glasses in awe. “Yeah, I guess they were.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Bucky was thoroughly terrified to see Tony, but I hope it wasn’t a surprise that Tony isn’t about to go postal on him. Obviously Tony will still need some time to process and heal, but he has a support system, and he’s had time to plan for this before too. I think the fact that it’s implied that Bucky may have been subtly trying to resist Hydra anyways, probably helps too. 
> 
> I really wanted to have the scene between Bucky and Steve too, since Steve doesn’t often get a chance to grieve Howard, because he has to deal with more immediate concerns.
> 
> And then I thought it was touching to share a positive memory of Howard between Bucky and Tony.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stark gets put back on active duty.

Things settle into a relaxed sort of understanding between him and Stark. Their relationship doesn’t actually change much, since Stark hadn’t really sought him out _before_ this had all happened, and the Asset does his best to respect his space afterwards. He now understands better why Stark had avoided him previously, but he can at least be secure in the knowledge that he and Stark can be in the same room together and work together without having too much trouble.

His handler is obviously relieved by the development too, his shoulders relaxing in a way that suddenly clues the Asset in to how tense they had been _before,_ when he and Stark are both able to pleasantly eat their respective meals one morning in the common room kitchen.

His handler is careful to remind him that he can speak with him any time he feels, about his BARF sessions, but the Asset isn’t quite willing to take him up on that just yet. He knows his handler knows about his Hydra missions, but something about explaining to his handler the things he’d had to do in _person_ is unappealing.

Instead he begins to write more frequently in his journal. While at first he had been primarily using it to catalogue his flashbacks, he now starts adding his own thoughts as well, finding the exercise helpful in calming his mind when faced with a particularly painful memory. Of course, with all the extra journaling, he finds his notebook starting to get full, and for several days he frets over whether he should start trying to ration his pages or somehow get another one.

He’s obviously distracted by his conundrum because after a few days, he finds himself being thoroughly outmatched in his sparring session with Romanoff. Usually he’s able to hold his own for a while, and it’s interesting trying to predict Romanoff’s style, but right now he isn’t doing so well.

After Romanoff drops him for the fourth time, she stands over him, her hands on her hips, looking down on him. Back with Hydra, failure like this would be met with punishment, but now it only earns him a raised eyebrow. “Do you need a break?” she asks skeptically as he pulls himself up.

He tugs on his shirt and breathes out before shaking his hair away from his face. “No,” he says, without moving back into a sparring position. Romanoff’s eyebrow climbs higher at his inactivity, and she doesn’t move either, standing waiting for him as he works on trying to say what he needs.

It shouldn’t be this hard to ask for it. Romanoff had gotten him his journal in the _first_ place, so surely she won’t mind if he brings up getting a new one now. She might even be pleased that he had used her gift so thoroughly. With that in mind, he straightens his shoulders and focuses on Romanoff’s left shoulder, not quite able to look at her. “I need… a journal,” he says, trying not to mumble his words. “Mine’s full.”

A blink is her only indication that she might be surprised by his request and she nods her head, rotating her arms a few times in a stretch before shifting down into a sparring stance. “That can be arranged,” she says, much to the Asset’s relief.

After their sparring, Romanoff takes him out and gets him _two_ new journals, a packet of pens and something called post-it notes. He can’t help being mesmerized a little by the post-it notes. He doesn’t think he’s ever used something like them before, but he likes how colourful they are, and they help him organize the different sections in his notebooks.

oOo

He continues to work with Stark and the BARF tech. Beck continues to be passive aggressively angry about it for reasons the Asset isn’t quite sure about, but he mostly ignores it, working instead on doing his best to neutralise the trigger words in his head. Now that he knows for sure that he doesn’t need the them, that Hydra had put them in him and that his handler had not, it’s easier to conceive getting rid of them. The trigger words had made him do terrible things, and he _never_ wants to risk that again.

For the most part, in order to maximize his time with the BARF tech, he tries not to let it go off down memory lane, instead working within a memory to subvert the triggering process as it happens, messing up the order of the sequence or slipping in the wrong word, or, on some occasions, waiting until the end and trying to keep his holo-self from responding to the triggering.

He and Stark are still very careful to keep from playing the whole triggering sequence at once, since they’re not sure what that would do, or if it would still trigger him, but he has to admit that he _does_ feel like he’s making progress.

And then Stark gets put back on active duty.

He doesn’t go on any missions right away, partly because the Avengers don’t have any, and partly because they want to ease him back into it, but the change does disrupt their BARF sessions a little. With Stark on-call, there’s no guarantee when he or the other Avengers will be in the tower, so it’s a little difficult to plan for future sessions.

“We might just have to get used to having Beck do them with you,” Stark tells him one day. “He can run the tech and call anyone if there’s any problems...” He looks up at him. “’Course, if you don’t want that, then we’ll think of something else.”

The Asset swallows and tries not to let his nerves show. To be honest, something about Beck sets him on edge, but he doesn’t want to let that get in the way of his progress. Beck had sat in on all his _other_ sessions, so being there alone with him shouldn’t be that big of a difference. It’s not like he really interacts much with either Stark or Beck _anyways_ during the sessions… so it _should_ be fine.

Stark is still watching him, and the Asset nods. “That’s fine,” he says. “That way I can continue while the Avengers are gone.”

Stark seems satisfied with his response and the Asset tries to steel himself, repeating his reasoning over in his head. Using Beck in the sessions is good because then he can work even when the Avengers are gone on missions, he can keep making progress even while they’re gone and that is good. Yes.

He will just have to get used to Beck’s manner. He’s had _plenty_ of worse handlers and agents, Beck hardly compares.

oOo

Beck starts taking a more active role in the BARF sessions, playing the triggers and controlling which ones they use, and soon after Stark gets cleared for duty, the Avengers get called in.

“It’s just something small,” his handler explains to him as the Avengers finish suiting up in the common room. “The city is having a celebration and the mayor is giving a speech.”

Behind him, Stark scowls and grumbles under his breath as he checks the mechanism that will allow his suit to fold out around him. “Un _for_ tunately, it’s apparently part of our job to go look pretty and shake hands with people.”

Off to the side, Barton snorts and adjusts his leather armguard. “Aw, Tony, I thought you _liked_ the limelight.”

Stark goes on to explain the difference between limelight and the-first-mission-he’s-been-on-since-getting-a-chunk-of-metal-taken-out-of-his-chest, before turning towards the Asset. “I know we were going to have a BARF session today,” he says, turning to position himself so that his suit can expand and fold over him in a flurry of moving parts. “But,” His helmet flips over his face and his voice becomes more robotic. “I was thinking, today’s a good day to let Beck take a shot at it.” He flips down his helmet so that the Asset can see his face and flexes his fingers in his metal gauntlets. “We’ll still be in the city if something goes wrong,” he reassures. “It’d be a good test run.”

The Asset pushes down his instinctual distaste for the idea and nods. Stark is right about the situation. Trying out BARF with Beck while the Avengers are still nearby is probably his best option, if he wants to get used to this. That doesn’t mean he really enjoys the idea though.

 _This is progress,_ he reminds himself firmly as he flicks his eyes around the room and watches Wilson adjust the straps of his jetpack.

“Great,” Stark says at his confirmation, his helmet folding back up and clicking into place as the other Avengers finish with their final preparations. “I’ll let him know. He’ll be here pretty quick.”

The Asset nods again and shifts to stand at attention, watching silently as the Avengers pack off and prepare to head out. Silence falls over the common room and he can’t seem to persuade himself to find something to do. Instead he stands still and waits – as if the familiar activity will somehow calm his sparking anxiety – until JARVIS finally informs him that Beck is making his way to the BARF room.

The Asset breathes in and readies himself, turning towards the elevator. _Beck_ _works with Stark_ , he reminds himself, because Stark must trust the man if he’s willing to work with him like this. _It’ll be just like working with any other agent._

Beck isn’t there yet, when he gets to the room, and his footsteps echo unsettlingly in the white space as he steps inside. He sweeps his eyes over the open floor and the set up of computer consoles in the corner, before moving to stand at attention in the middle of the room. He debates for a moment grabbing the glasses from by the computers, but eventually decides to wait instead. He can’t remember for sure if he’s ever grabbed the glasses without someone’s permission, and he’d rather be safe than sorry with his first session with Beck.

It doesn’t take long for Beck to arrive, the man rushing in with his phone clutched to his chest, his eyes darting around the room with an almost manic energy as the door shuts behind him. The Asset swallows uneasily as Beck stumbles to a stop, his eyes skating over him and the empty space before he shakes his head and turns towards the computer consoles.

“Alright,” he says as he moves to sit down, his hand shaking slightly as he sets his phone next to him before he brings his head up to give the Asset a confident, almost arrogant look. He flashes him a smile, and something about it sends shivers running down the Asset’s spine as Beck swipes at something on his phone screen. His eyes glint as he looks at his phone, and the Asset finds himself taking a step back, his hands tightening behind him. A second later and Beck looks up, his eyes flashing something dark and dangerous. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

A sense of foreboding settles in his stomach and the Asset opens his mouth, ready to protest the start of the session because he doesn’t have the glasses yet. That doesn’t seem to stop Beck though, and the Asset’s pulse trips over itself as he watches the man press something on his phone. “Let’s just hope we haven’t messed it up _already_.” He hears Beck mumble, his brows furled in concentration as he raises the volume of his phone.

“ _Желаниe_.” His handler’s voice echoes from the phone and the Asset stumbles back another step, his eyes widening in panic as his breath catches in his chest. His eyes dart from the phone to Beck’s face as he tries to understand. He’s not sure where Beck got his recording, since Stark normally uses the computer, and the quality of Beck’s recording seems a bit off, but it’s hardly an issue because he _doesn’t have the glasses_ and Beck is playing the _triggers_.

“Wait—” He opens his mouth, ready to tell Beck his mistake, but his voice gets choked off as another word plays.

“ _Pжавый_.” Rusted.

He shudders, his breath catching, and he finds himself completely unprepared against the unexpected assault. He'd been— he’d been planning on fighting the trigger words, but Beck hadn’t even given him a _chance_ to prepare and he hadn’t _given him the_ _glasses_.

He pulls away, panic clouding his mind as he presses his hands over his ears, trying to block out the sound. The volume is too loud though, and his hearing too enhanced and nothing he does stops him from hearing—

 _“Семнадцать.”_ Seventeen.

A thin whine escapes his throat and he stumbles further back, his shoulders meeting the wall behind him as he cringes away. He does not want this. He _does not want this_ and part of his mind is screaming at him to rush at Beck, to snatch away his phone, to _stop_ it somehow, but the rest of him is locked up and paralysed with overwhelming fear because he’s _not supposed to resist the triggering sequence_.

He pants, and in the background, above the sounds of his own frantic breathing and pounding heart, he can hear JARVIS speak up. His mind is too frazzled to make out anything beyond reprimanding sounds, but he can imagine the AI is trying to stop Beck. He knows instantly, with a frenzied certainty, that the AI will not be able to help him. Beck’s phone isn’t connected to the system so there’s no way to shut it off and Beck doesn’t seem to be stopping—

“ _Рассвет_.” Daybreak.

The trigger tugs at something in his brain, and a burning acidic fear shoots through him. He gasps and shakes his head frantically, his hands digging into his ears. He doesn’t _want—_ He has to— to stop it. He can stop it. He can, he can— He— He just has to _think_. They’re just _words._ He shudders as his mind races, threatening a distraught meltdown because he’d been busy practicing messing up the _sequence_ , not fighting the words— Not exactly. But— but he can. He can. Daybreak is— daybreak is—

— _a hand reaching to yank his hair, his handler jerking him awake. It’s hardly light out, but the barest hints of a pink sunrise shine through the trees where they’ve stopped to rest. He’s awake almost instantly, his scalp burning as he—_

“ _Печь_.” Furnace.

— _his knee gives a twinge as he moves to carefully kneel down by the heater—this handler likes kneeling. He thinks he might have twisted his knee in pursuit of the Target though – the joint sending pulses of pain up and down his leg as he settles – but at least it’s warm here, by the—_

“Девять.” Nine.

— _He counts the strikes, breathing through them and trying to focus on something besides the pain. It helps to count them, gives him something else to think about besides— —“–of them,” his handler ~~Steve~~ says, pointing at the rudimentary map in front of them. “We’ll have to set up a distraction—_

“ _Доброкачественные_.” Benign.

— _He scowls at the paper, twirling the pencil in his hand – his_ right _hand – as he tries to remember the correct spelling of the word. Up front, Mr. Rollin--- paces, his eyes sharp as he scans the class, checking for cheaters. Their eyes meet for half-a-second before he ducks his head again and—_

“ _Возвращение домой_.” Homecoming.

— _"Com’on,” he huffs, grabbing onto Steve’s bookbag with one hand and holding out his other. Steve wipes his mouth irritably and winces as he brushes the growing bruise on his cheek. His pants are torn at the knee and he can only imagine Ma Rogers’ reaction when they finally make it home again—_

“ _Один_.” One.

— _Ma smiles as she jostles Alice, prompting her to wave hello to someone. She’s turning one today, and the adults are gathered around the table, cooing over her. Ma Rogers has a soft expression on her face as she pulls out her gift, a blue and white blanket she had crocheted herself—_

“ _Грузовой вагон_.” Freight car.

— _“Pa got me it for Christmas,” he tells Steve as he sets up the tracks, his eyes alight with excitement. It’s a wooden set, not as cool as the electric one that Billy had gotten, but Billy had already gotten in trouble for breaking the wheel off one of his cars, and Steve’s going to make them some paper figures to use along with—_

“Soldat.” Beck is speaking now, and the Asset blinks, opening his eyes to realise that he’s sunk down onto his knees by the back wall. His face is wet and his vision swims in front of him as he sucks in a desperate breath, his hands loose over his ears as his thoughts continue to race and crash around in his head. _Soldat,_ Beck had said. Words rise in his throat and he swallows shakily. He knows the response to that. He should—

The sound of splintering wood and a combusting explosion distracts him, and he darts his head up to see the door to the room shudder, the place where the handle had been now a smoking, glowing hole. He stares uncomprehendingly as a low whirling reaches his ears and the door bursts inward, kicked open by a shiny metal boot. The door hits the wall with a clang, and Beck’s mouth drops open as Stark marches in, the eyepieces of his helmet glowing ominously and his hand repulsors raised and ready.

Beck’s face pales and he whips back around to face the Asset. “ _Soldat_ ,” he snaps, a hysterical edge to his voice. “Get up—”

The Asset shudders, and for half-a-second he almost stands up, because— because— that’s what he’s _supposed_ to do, he’s supposed to— But the mechanisms of Stark’s suit whirl, and he darts his eyes over to watch as the man takes three powerful steps to where Beck is standing, his metal hand coming up to snap onto Beck’s wrist, the repulsor of his other hand shining bright in his face.

“I wouldn’t try it,” Stark says, a dark tone underlying his vocalizer. His helmet turns to face the Asset and it retracts, revealing his flyaway hair and the lines of worry on his face. “Just hold it together Barnes,” he orders sharply, before casting a quick glance at the ceiling. “JARVIS—”

He gets cut off by the AI himself. “You have an incoming call, Sir,” he informs them, something tight to his voice.

“Put it through,” Stark replies just as tightly, shifting his grip as Beck’s face twists into a scowl and he tugs at the hold keeping him immobile.

 _“Tony._ ” His handler’s voice sounds over the audio system and a wave of hysterical relief rolls through the Asset at the sound, his breath catching and his head dropping so that his hair swings in front of his face, his entire frame beginning to tremble under him. _“What happened?”_ his handler continues. _“You suited up and left the ceremony with hardly a word.”_

Stark huffs out a breath and narrows his eyes at Beck who’s busy glaring daggers at him. “Sorry about that,” he replies without taking his eyes off Beck. “JARVIS alerted me to an _extremely_ time-sensitive situation in the tower and I was the one who could get here the fastest.” He casts a glance at the Asset, his eyes sweeping him as if trying to assess his condition, before he looks back at Beck. “I’m in the BARF room with Barnes and Beck,” he tells Handler-Steve. “When can you get here?”

“ _ETA two minutes_ ,” Handler-Steve replies to Stark’s blink of surprise. “ _When you rushed off, we figured something was up and made our excuses and left_.”

It’s hard to tell because of the suit, but Stark seems to relax slightly at the reassurance of backup before he signs off and turns his attention to the renewed struggles of Beck.

“You’re making a mistake,” the man hisses, a furious light in his eyes. “You think you’re _oh so brilliant_ but you won’t even use the tools you have in front of you.” Stark’s brow furls but Beck isn’t finished yet. “You and the rest of them, you think you guys are _heroes?_ ” He spits the word, his hair falling in front of his eyes. “You think you’re a hero and you go off and shake hands all day with _politicians_.” He waves his free hand at Stark in a sharp, angry gesture, seemingly unconcerned with the threatening repulsor near his face.

Stark shakes his head. “Alright Beck,” he says, sounding unimpressed and tugging on his arm. “Time to wrap it up–”

Beck sneers at him. “Oh sure,” he says, pulling back. “You can go smooze around all day, maybe fly around in your ‘fancy toy’ and fiddle with a few things, while you go and squander _my tech._ ” His free hand hits his chest with his last words and a vein pokes out in his neck. “It has _so many_ applications— you could do _so much_ with it.” His eyes glint and the Asset shudders to think of what kinds of things Beck might want to do with his tech. “It has so much potential, and you _turned it into a joke_.”

Beck lets out a frantic laugh and Stark presses his lips together as he watches the man unravel. Beck shakes his head, his eyes flashing. “But you have a habit of throwing away everything, don’t you?” His lips curl. “First your weapons manufacturing–” Stark tenses. “–then _my tech_ , and him!” Beck sweeps his head around to look at the Asset and he finds himself cringing back into the wall.

“Look at him!” Beck snaps, continuing to pull at Stark’s hold. “You want to make a difference in the world? You want to be a _hero?”_ He glares, his eyes dark with anger. “You have the perfect tool in front of you, and you want to _ruin_ it. You want to fiddle around and coddle him when you could be using him _properly_ —”

“That’s enough,” Stark cuts in, his voice heavy and foreboding, his face dark like a brewing storm.

Beck stills for a second, scanning Stark, before he lets out a bitter laugh. “It doesn’t matter anyways now, I guess,” he says, with a slow shake of his head. “Because _I’ve_ got him now. He’s under _my_ control.” His eyes gleam. “I’ll show you— You could have been doing _so much_ with him.” His expression takes a sudden cruel edge to it and he smiles. “It’s too late to stop him now. He wouldn’t stop for _Howard_ , I doubt he’d stop for you or Captain Rogers.”

Stark stiffens, a look of fury crossing over his face, but the Asset hardly sees it amid the influx of horror that floods his brain. He— Beck wants him to— No no no he can’t! He can’t— He— His vision blurs and his breathing picks up as he presses his metal hand to the floor in front of him, trying desperately to find something to ground himself with. His pulse is so loud in his ears that he can hardly hear anything else, but he _does_ hear when Beck turns back to him, panic rising with every moment.

“Asset—”

A small distant part of him notices that the name sounds weird, realising in that moment that it had been _ages_ since anyone has actually called him by it. Still, he doesn’t have much time to think about it because as Beck speaks, he picks up the sound of pounding feet and he darts his head up in time to see his handler burst into the room, his shield out and ready and his eyes bright with righteous fury.

The sight of his handler seems to spook Beck, and he desperately ducks the hand Stark tries to wrap around his mouth. “Asset!” He snaps, a frantic edge to his voice. “Asset attack—”

“ _No!”_ The Asset bursts out, before he can even think, his head ducking and his shoulders pressing into the wall behind him, his breaths coming fast and heavy in his lungs. Beck freezes and stares at him open-mouthed, his eyes wide with shock, and the Asset sucks in a breath, his hands shaking. “No,” he says again, something high and desperate in his voice. “No, I— No. No. I won’t. I _won't_.”

He presses himself more firmly back into the wall, as if that will somehow keep him from jumping up and attacking everyone, and he tries to breathe, the shaking in his limbs making it hard to concentrate. He _won’t_ do it. No matter what Beck says, he won’t do it, he _won't_ —

“I’ll deal with him,” Stark says to his handler as he wrestles Beck into a better hold. “You take care of Barnes.”

The Asset sees his handler nod and turn to him as Stark drags Beck from the room, the man protesting vehemently the whole way, his face a picture of outrage at the fact that the Asset hadn’t complied. Stark makes it to the door and their sounds fade, leaving the Asset and his frantic breathing to fill the room.

“Bucky,” his handler says softly, his voice bringing tears to the Asset’s eyes. “You’re okay.” His handler crouches, his hands out placatingly before he eases his shield off his arm and sets it on the floor, his eyes never leaving the Asset’s face. “I’m here,” he says. “It’s okay.”

The Asset’s breath is thin and wheezing and he can't seem to stop shaking, his heart in his throat as he looks over to his handler. “I won’t,” he gets out with a frantic shake of his head. His voice raises hysterically. “I won’t—”

“I know Buck,” his handler says soothingly, his eyes bright. “You did _so_ good.”

The Asset’s breath catches on a sob and he shudders, pulling into himself. “He tried— He tried to—” His right hand climbs up to grip his hair and he ducks his head into his chest, positively shaking at what had just happened. Beck had been trying to purposely trigger him. It hadn’t been an accident; it wasn’t a mistake. He’d been trying to purposely trigger him and he’d wanted to—

“I know,” his handler replies tightly, easing forward slightly, his hands out in a peaceful gesture. “JARVIS told me when I got to the tower. I’m so sorry, he should have never—” He breathes in and seems to reel in a thread of anger before looking up at him, his eyes pleading. “Can I come over there? Or do you want me to stay here?” He eyes watch him as the Asset tries to regulate his breathing. “Whatever you want Buck, whatever you need.”

The Asset breathes out a few choppy breaths that are edged with unshed tears and a whimper sounds deep in his throat. He finds himself reaching for his handler, his vision clouding as his shaking intensifies. Handler-Steve is there immediately, reassuringly solid as the Asset’s hands grasp at his uniform, another sob forcing its way out of his throat. His handler reaches up to hold onto his shoulders and the Asset hangs his head, trying to focus enough to follow the up and down motions of his handler’s chest under his hands.

“It didn’t— It didn’t work,” he gasps out, a growing sense of awe and dumbfounded shock unfolding in his brain. His hands shake on his handler’s uniform and he pulls him closer, pressing his forehead to his collarbone in an effort to ground himself. “It didn’t work,” he says again, because part of him still can’t quite believe it. Beck had tried to trigger him; he’d said the words and it hadn’t—

“It didn’t work,” his handler confirms, moving to wrap one arm around the Asset’s shoulders, his chest continuing to breathe evenly under him, his voice slightly strained, as if he were fighting back tears. “You did it. You did so, so good.”

Hot tears escape the Asset’s eyes and he presses his head more firmly against his handler’s collarbone, the knuckles of his right hand white in its hold on his handler’s uniform. His head moves as his handler breathes in, and the Asset breathes in too, his eyes squeezing shut as he works on calming down from his scare.

He feels absolutely drained, completely and totally sucked dry, but underneath everything is a growing spark of glowing pride. Beck had tried to trigger him, and it _hadn’t worked_. He’d _done it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really excited to post this chapter! 
> 
> Beck finally showed his true colours and lived up to his instability. As you all knew, he’s really so slimy *shudders* But he also made like, six new enemies all at once, so. 
> 
> Poor Bucky is shaken, BUT he resisted the triggering sequence. Writing that was very interesting, since his programming is basically tearing itself apart and trying to hang on with white knuckles at the same time. Has anyone read Ella Enchanted? This kind of reminds me of the scene where she breaks her spell.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset learns some things about human decency, and takes a break from BARF.

The episode with Beck catches everyone off guard and the Asset can feel the unease among the Avengers as they go over the incident once things calm down. Beck himself is taken and put into police custody, and Stark instructs JARVIS to go through his records and find something they can pin on him. “People don’t go off the rails like that without leaving a trail behind them,” he says darkly. “I’m sure we’ll find a skeleton or two in his closet that we can hand over to the police.”

Technically, Stark explains to him, they _could_ simply go to the police with what Beck had done to him, but that would involve a long explanation and would probably open a whole new can of worms that they don’t want to deal with yet. “We’ll get him though,” he says definitively. “There’s no _way_ he will get away with this.”

The Asset doesn’t doubt that. It's almost surreal to him, but a low-level anger seems to run through the team as they discuss what Beck had done. He knows now that his triggers are from Hydra and that he doesn’t need them, but it still feels strange for the Avengers to be so upset at the triggering and at the fact that Beck had done it to him without his permission.

“If I’d known he was _nuts_ I never would have worked with him,” Stark says as they sit around the common room couches, his hands flexing with pent up tension. “I didn’t realise he was so upset.” He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “He worked for Stark Industries. He developed BARF _for_ SI, it might have been his idea, but we still had the right to use it as we saw fit.” He presses his lips together. “Guess he had a problem with that.”

“It’s not your fault you didn’t know, Stark,” Romanoff states firmly, her eyes sharp. “None of us saw it either.”

Stark huffs and leans back. “You didn’t work closely with him,” he says bitterly. “I pulled him into the process because it _was_ his idea. We could have easily done it without him, but that didn’t feel right and, given what we know now, it would’ve just pissed him off quicker… but–” He shrugs one shoulder. “He wouldn’t have been in a position to hurt anyone.”

The Asset shifts uncomfortably in his seat next to his handler and looks down at his clasped hands. Stark seems upset that he hadn’t somehow known about Beck and stopped him, but that isn’t fair because– “Beck didn’t want you to know,” he says, the muscles in his lower back tensing as everyone turns to look at him. “He never said anything while you were around.”

Stark blinks at him and sits up abruptly. “Wait. He _said_ something to you?” he asks, looking a mix of concerned and surprised. “What did he say?”

The Asset rolls his shoulders and squeezes his hands tighter together, trying not to stress out too much about the interrogation. “It wasn’t really anything,” he mumbles, ducking his head, trying to think back to the things Beck had griped about while they waited for Stark before their sessions.

His handler shifts next to him. “Bucky,” he says, looking at him intently. “If Beck treated you poorly, then we need to know about it. It isn’t okay.”

The Asset presses his lips together and tries not to squirm, the outpouring of concern in the room settling strangely in his chest. “He— I didn’t know he was so angry,” he tries to explain, keeping his eyes focused on his hands. “He complained about the sessions but—” _But I didn’t report it,_ he thinks as he chews on his bottom lip. Maybe if he’d been smart enough to report Beck when this had all started, then none of it would have happened. But he hadn’t realised it was a _problem_. Beck hadn’t really been acting that strange. Maybe he should have reported his complaints against Stark, but he hadn’t been acting that strangely towards _him._

“But he was acting like a normal agent,” he says, trying to explain, even though explaining had never helped before. He should have reported Beck, but he hadn’t and now he’d caused a lot of trouble for the Avengers because he hadn’t followed protocol. “Agents are always–” He waves a hand, trying to come up with the word. “–dissatisfied. Working with the Asset outside of missions. He thought I could be used better—”

He cuts himself off, because at the time, when Beck had said those things to him, he hadn't realised yet how _bad_ his missions with Hydra had been, and how _badly_ they had put him to use. Part of him had agreed with Beck because he hadn't known any better and now Beck had tried to trigger and use him and this all could have been avoided if he’d just _reported_ him like a proper asset— but he hadn’t— he hadn’t realised it was so _important_. Beck had been acting like all the other agents he had worked with.

Except for the Avengers, of course, and he realises now, with dawning comprehension, that maybe that’s part of the reason why Hydra was so bad and the Avengers are so much better than them. Because their agents are not _allowed_ to— to treat him like—

“Bucky.” His handler’s voice is soft, and he turns to look over at him, his mind alight with his recent discovery. His handler twists his hands together for a moment, as if he isn’t quite sure what to say, before catching his eye. “Buck, people—” He breathes in. “The way Hydra agents treated you… is not how people are supposed to treat you.” His eyes seem to stare into him, confirming the Asset’s newfound suspicions. “It was wrong of them to do it,” his handler says, the lines around his eyes tightening. “And whatever Beck did was wrong too.”

The Asset swallows and nods, and his handler leans forward slightly. “Next time,” he says. “If anyone makes you feel like that, please tell one of us, so that we can help.”

The Asset darts his eyes down to his lap and nods again, internally berating himself again for not reporting Beck earlier. “Sorry,” he mumbles. If he’d reported Beck, even just for the things he’d said about Stark, then none of this would have happened and nobody would have to be so worried.

“It’s not your fault, Buck,” his handler reassures, and when he risks a glance upwards, he finds him offering him a small smile. “You didn’t do anything wrong. None of us could have predicted what Beck would do, but now we know.”

The Asset starts to nod slowly before his eyes jerk up to the ceiling as JARVIS speaks up. “If it is any consolation, Sergeant,” the AI says, sounding regretful. “I too did not suspect Beck, even though I was privy to his behavior towards you. His complaints were sporadic, and did not seem to cause you much distress, so at the time I did not take any action… and for that I apologize.”

The Asset blinks at the apology, part of him relaxing at the reassurance that JARVIS had _also_ seen what Beck had done and hadn’t reported it, meaning his response is a little more justifiable than he had first thought. “It’s okay,” he tells JARVIS after a moment. “I didn’t realise it was a problem either.” He looks down from the ceiling and across from him, Romanoff is watching him with the barest hints of a smile on her face. He blinks at her because he’s not exactly sure what she’s smiling about, but soon finds his attention taken elsewhere.

Next to Romanoff, Barton huffs out a breath and shakes his head. “You should put in a new protocol, Tony,” he suggests ruefully, waving his hand. “Anyone who’s a dick to Barnes automatically gets a red flag.” He flashes the group a crooked smile. “A ‘true test of character’ kind of thing.”

The Asset is pretty sure Barton is making the suggestion humorously, and Stark smiles at it, but there’s a considering look in his eyes that makes him think the engineer might actually look into the idea. He watches Stark’s eyes grow distant for a moment, as though JARVIS’ coding was right in front of him, before giving his head a little shake and looking them all over.

“Well.” He rubs both of his hands along his jeans. “At least, out of all of this, we know that Barnes can resist the triggering sequence now.” Everyone in the room seems extremely proud of that fact, and the Asset finds his cheeks heating at their impressed looks. He looks down, a cheerful pleased feeling growing in his chest, despite everything else about the situation.

“Yeah.” His handler does nothing to hide the pride in his voice as he looks over to him. The Asset finds his blush growing, and for a second, he has to fight the inexplicable urge to reach over and shove his handler’s shoulder, the image of grabbing him and wrestling him into a playful headlock suddenly seeming a lot more natural than it should.

He doesn’t do it, of course, but part of him can’t help feeling it would somehow help alleviate his embarrassment at the positive attention.

oOo

Progress with the triggering sequence aside, he and Stark decide to take a break from the BARF tech for a while. They both know that they will still have to test the sequence a few times, and make sure the Asset is truly resistant to it, but the process is a little less urgent now, and the Asset will readily admit that they both probably could use some time away from the tech for now. He can’t deny that the thought of going back into that room so soon after his last incident makes him slightly nervous, even though he knows it will need to be done eventually.

He doesn’t exactly _say_ all of that to anyone, but nobody suggests he go in for any sessions, and Stark tells him they will just wait until he’s ready, so they seem to know anyways.

Without the BARF sessions, he doesn’t have a lot to do besides his usual activities and training with the Avengers, but he does work up the courage to go back to the garage every once and a while, and work on Stark’s cars for the first time since he’d learned about Howard and Maria. He wears the special glove Stark had made for him, and one time, when his handler had learned where he was going, his handler had come down too, and spent the afternoon next to him, working amiably on his motorcycle.

Things remain calm like that for a week or so as fall begins to take over the country, and he watches the leaves on the trees begin to slowly fade to yellow on his most recent walk with Banner, the two of them heading for the library. It’s still a nice day out, and neither of them need to wear much more than a jacket as they make their way through Bryant Park, the stone structure of the library approaching up ahead.

He finds he enjoys going to the library with Banner. After the first few times he had gained enough confidence to browse the shelves by himself, and Banner usually now leaves him alone to wander the building for a while, flipping through any book that catches his eye. He hasn’t actually _borrowed_ any books yet, although Banner had explained to him the process and promised him the use of his library card, but he still enjoys looking through the books he finds.

It’s midmorning when they reach the library, but it’s a weekday, so the building isn’t overly crowded, mostly filled with older seniors, a few parents with young children, and people seeking shelter for one reason or another. The librarian smiles at them from the check-out desk as they enter, and Bruce offers a small wave in response, their attendance at the library a regular enough occurrence to make them recognisable to the staff.

The Asset offers a nod at her greeting before turning to walk off to the stacks, Banner peeling off to go peruse the display of new books. For his part, the Asset doesn’t really have a destination in mind. He enjoys walking up and down the aisles of the shelves and letting his eyes wander, because the librarians often face out interesting books at the ends of the shelves. The displays are helpful since without them he probably would have no idea when to stop and look at anything, and they offer him an easy choice of reading material.

He finds his feet taking him off to the colourful children’s section, and he sweeps his eyes over the low shelves, the tops covered in various picture books. He steps forward and walks along the first shelf, his eyes scanning the books in front of him. The first few times he’d come to the library, he’d been too intimidated to come into the children’s section. The presence of families with small children was almost entirely foreign territory to him, and he hadn’t been completely certain as to whether or not he was actually _allowed_ to look at the kid’s books, since they were for, well, children. But eventually, he’d worked up the courage to at least do a perimeter check of the area, and he’d found the space somewhat relaxing, despite the occasional rowdy child.

It’s bright, and colourful, and there is an open space with wooden blocks and stuffed animals for the children to play with, and there is a nook with beanbag chairs and computers for the older kids. The books are nice too, because they are simple and straightforward, their stories intending to be easily accessible to their audience. There had been a few times – after Banner had shown him how to look things up on the library computer – that he had specifically searched for his topic in the children’s section first, just so he could get a simple baseline of information.

Today, there isn’t very many people in the children’s section. A mother sits in one of the colourful chairs off to the side and she glances at him as she rocks the stroller next to her, while two kids sit at the computers, talking excitedly to each other as they play some kind of game together. Across the room, a man browses the early reader chapter books, a bag in hand as he presumably searches for something for one of his kids.

For his part, the Asset looks over the picture books, admiring the colours and furling his brow a little at some of the weirder concepts (like the strange consequences of giving mice cookies) before moving on to the non-fiction section. He walks until he finds the cookbook section and then crouches down, sweeping his eyes over the selection. He doesn’t actually plan to borrow any of the books, but the simple recipes might offer him something to suggest next time Wilson decides to teach him to cook.

A few minutes into his browsing (he finds a dessert book that looks rather interesting), he hears a flurry of footsteps and he looks up to see a little girl, maybe seven, rush down the aisle and plant herself in front of the shelf next to him. He watches bemused as she scans the shelves before darting her head up. “The horse books are here, mom!” She calls, to the world at large.

“Alright!” The Asset hears the distant, amiable reply, the girl’s parent probably taking a more leisurely route to the children’s section.

The girl grins excitedly and begins to pull out a few books, her hands moving with a familiarity that makes the Asset suspect she’s borrowed these books before. His mouth quirks up slightly at her excitement before he turns back to his own books, reaching up to pull out a book labeled _Cupcakes_ , the picture on the front looking promising.

“Woah.”

He blinks and turns to find the girl staring at him opened mouthed, her eyes pinned on his left hand. He realises abruptly that the sleeve of his jacket has ridden up enough that she can see his whole hand and wrist, and he darts his eyes over her face nervously, not quite sure what to expect. He usually wears long sleeves while in public, so most people don’t notice his arm, and if they _do_ see it, they don’t say anything.

Kids don’t have the same filter as adults though, and the girl beside him looks positively enraptured. She darts her eyes to him. “That’s so cool!” She gushes, her one hand reaching out for his. “Is that your hand?”

He fumbles and drops the book he’d been holding, managing to avoid her questing hand as he reaches down to pick it up, his eyes wide. He hasn’t really interacted with children much, not in his stay at the tower or in his missions with Hydra (and he’s quick to shut down thoughts of the few times he _had_ with them), so he’s not quite sure how to react. Still, his flashbacks show that he had, at one point, worked with children, Alice and… and Becca, right? So, he should be able to handle it.

“Um,” he replies eloquently. “Yes.” He flexes his hand a little for her, and the girl’s eyes light up.

“That’s so cool!” She says again, her hands thankfully back on her own books. Her eyes widen and she looks up at him. “You’re like Cyborg!” She exclaims, although he has no idea who she’s referencing. Her eyes drop down to his right side. “Is your other hand a robot too?”

He blinks at her and raises his right hand to show his flesh fingers, shaking his head. “No.”

The girl pouts for a second before looking back at his left hand. He lets her look, feeling slightly bemused by the excited attention. After a moment, she looks up, catching his eye. “How come you just got one?” she asks. “What happened to it?”

He opens his mouth before pausing, at a loss for words because he doesn’t exactly _know_ the answer. “Well… it’s gone,” he finally answers, and the girl nods sagely like he’d actually answered her question. She looks at his hand for a moment longer before her eyes suddenly brighten and she turns back to the shelf in front of her.

“I saw a book like that!” She exclaims, her hands running along the books in front of her. “It was about a horse, ‘cept she was missing her leg.” He stays silent as she chats, finding a small smile growing on his face as he watches her cheerful search. After a few minutes, the girl gives a triumphant cry and pulls out a thin orange book from the shelf. “Here.” She turns to him and holds out the book. “This is for you.”

He accepts the book graciously, looking over the photo of a black horse standing with a prosthetic on its front leg. The title reads, _Molly the Pony: A True Story_ , and he stares at it. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that there may be books about other people or animals that are also missing limbs.

“Cecilia!” The girl’s head darts up at the sound of a woman’s voice and she reaches down to gather up her horse books.

“I gotta go see my mom now,” she tells him easily. “See you later—” She pauses and looks at him, a sudden intent expression on her face. “Wait. What’s your name?”

He opens his mouth, the question catching him off-guard. “Asset,” he manages to get out, the name fumbling around in his throat.

The girl grins at him and wraps her arms around her books, standing up. “See you later Mr. Asset!” She calls, before darting off. He watches her go in a sort of stunned awe, before looking back down at the book she had given him. His eyes skate over the prosthetic of the horse, and he flips it open, losing himself in the simple story of a horse who is first rescued from a hurricane, before losing her limb to a dog attack. Molly goes through a rare surgery to replace her front leg and then must embark on her new mission, making friends with and comforting children in hospitals as a therapy animal. 

It’s a touching story of survival, and he finds himself laying it down reverently once he’s finished with it, something about it, and the girl who had given it to him, causing a warm feeling to grow in his chest.

He moves on from the kid’s section after that, moving up and down the adult non-fiction shelves at a leisurely pace, his mind mostly focused on the book Cecilia had given him. He flexes his metal hand and puts it in the pocket of his jacket. He hadn't really thought about it, but of course, most of the people he meets have two arms, and _he’d_ had two arms at one point too. He doesn’t exactly remember when that fact had changed, but he’d had two arms when his handler had been small, and he can remember having two arms on his missions when his handler had gotten big.

He can’t remember ever having two arms on any of his Hydra missions, so it’s possible he had gotten it with them at some point. But he still isn’t quite sure why they would have done it. His metal arm is a good weapon, of course, but it _does_ hurt if he doesn’t take his medication, and it requires regular maintenance… so Hydra probably wouldn’t have given it to him unless they had _needed_ to, right?

He really doesn’t know, and he can’t help wondering if the answer lies in the file Hydra had given his handler on him. He's never seen the file – he hadn’t seen it in his handler’s room when he’d looked that one time – but Stark had seen it too at one point, or so he assumes. He actually has no idea if his handler even still _has_ the file, and part of him can’t decide if he would want to read it if he did. Setting aside the question as to whether or not he would be _allowed_ , he’s not sure he wants to see all his Hydra missions spelled out in front of him. He has to admit though, it might help him organise his memory of his time with Hydra, since he seems to remember things all out of order.

A second later, and all thoughts of his current dilemma are shocked out of his head when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees a book on display that causes him to stumble to an abrupt halt. He stares at it, open-mouthed and eyes wide, as his own face stares back at him, standing amid a group of men who he can recognise as the team his handler had used to lead. _The Howling Commandos_ , the book reads. _The Men Behind the Man._

His mouth feels dry and he finds himself reaching for the book, his thoughts racing but his movements feeling disconnected, as if he were in a trance. His mind can’t quite seem to grasp what he’s seeing and it’s hard to actually think beyond his shock. He… he had never expected to see a book about him, or _anyone_ he had worked with because— because his missions were supposed to be _secret_. No one was supposed to know about him, he wasn’t supposed to be _seen_.

But of course, maybe that isn’t true. That woman, Darcy, she had known about him, and people obviously know about his _handler_ , so… So maybe it had only been Hydra who had wanted his missions to be secret… and that— That would make sense, because his missions with Hydra are _bad_ —

His hand shakes slightly as he picks up the book and opens it to look at the inside cover. It’s a big book, almost two inches thick, and it’s new, the plastic cover protector shiny and crinkling sharply as he looks it over. A summary for the book is listed on the inside flap of the dustjacket, and he reads it, his mind almost numb as he tries to process the words.

 _Captain Steven Rogers,_ it reads, _also known as ‘Captain America’ has been a national icon for decades. Dozens of books, articles, documentaries and even children’s comic books have been made after the man. Less attention, however, has been paid to the amazing men who worked shoulder to shoulder with him, namely, the Howling Commandos._

_For the first time, author Robin Schaefer takes an in depth look at the extraordinary stories of the men who worked with Captain Rogers every step of the way, and who continued his work afterwards._

_Rife with hardship, sacrifice, and untold bravery, the Howling Commandos are an inspiring example of brotherhood and comradery in the face of mounting odds, prejudice and the unprecedented horrors of World War Two._

A few short, raving reviews are listed at the bottom, but he ignores them, reading the summary over several times, his eyes wide. Something about this— something about this book feels monumental in a way he can’t quite grasp yet, and he reaches with a trembling hand to turn over to the table of contents.

**Table of Contents:**

_Introduction_

_Chapter One: James “Bucky” Barnes: The Early Years_

It goes on, presumably, to list the rest of the team members, but he doesn’t see it, his breath stalled in his chest as he stares fixatedly at the first chapter. His heart pounds loud in his ears and his hands shake slightly as they tighten around the book.

 _Wh… what?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Bucky got to come to the realisation that Hydra’s treatment of him (and Beck’s) was wrong. And he got to see that Avengers’ anger on his behalf.
> 
> Also, I wanted to save showing Bucky’s trips to the library with Bruce until this point, so that you can see the important book he found! As you can tell, it’s VERY significant. 
> 
> And Molly the Pony is a real book! I thought it was perfect for this.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset deals with the book.

Blood rushes to his head as his world narrows down to the single book in his hands. There’s a kind of ringing in his ears as he fumbles to flip the page, but he hardly pays it any mind as he skips the introduction and holds the book open to chapter one.

 ** _Chapter One_** _: James “Bucky” Barnes: The Early Years,_ it reads, and he can hardly breathe.

 _(“What’s your name?”_ the little girl had asked.)

(“ _You’re Bucky, right?”_ that woman, Darcy had asked. _“Bucky Barnes?”)_

His heart pounds and his mind races. He knows, he _knows_ that this book – this whole thing, everything about it, he _knows_ it’s Important. But it’s so… it’s so _much_ that he can hardly pause long enough to think about it. He’s almost afraid to. It comes with so many implications that can to shatter _everything_ he’d ever thought that he can’t even…

He stares at the name, the title of the chapter captivating him. ‘Bucky’, his handler calls him. ‘Barnes’, Stark calls him. ‘Bucky Barnes’, Darcy had called him. But James… No one had ever— He blinks as a sudden memory rises in his brain. Him, with the BARF tech, one of the first times he’d tried it, and he’d been trying to mess up Handler-Karpov’s triggering sequence and— and he’d made it say _Yakov_. Yakov. Russian for James and he hadn’t known _why_ —

He breathes in slowly, swallowing thickly as he pulls the book closer to him, bending over it protectively as he tries to calm his thoughts. _Observation first,_ he thinks, because it’s easier to deal with it that way. He needs all the facts first, before he can figure out what they mean. He breathes out – shaking his head at his sudden light-headedness – before his legs give out and he sinks slowly down to sit cross-legged between the shelves, hunching over the book as he drops his eyes to read the first few lines.

_James Buchanan Barnes, known as “Bucky” to his friends and family, was born on March 10 th, 1917 to Winnifred (fig. 1) and George Barnes. A healthy baby boy of 7.8 lbs, Barnes was soon joined by three sisters, Rebecca “Becca” Barnes in 1920, Alice Barnes in 1924, and Hannah Barnes in 1926 (fig.2)._

He stops reading. He stops reading but he doesn’t move, instead staring blankly at the page as he tries to process even one word of what he’d read. First is the name, of course. The book had added another one, Buchanan, which he doesn’t know what to do with, and it had confirmed that most people had apparently called him Bucky… but he still doesn’t know _why_. Where did the name Bucky even _come_ from? How had it become his name?

Besides that, the book is making it sound like— it’s making it sound like he’d had— like he’d had a _family_. Like he’d had a mother and father like Stark had had and— and sisters. He’d had sisters. His eyes dart to the page and he reads their names over again. Those names… he can remember vaguely— he’s had a few flashbacks with little girls, and they’d been called— he’d _thought_ they’d been called Alice and Becca, and he can remember reading about someone named Becca who had been pregnant but—

But he doesn’t remember a Hannah. He doesn’t, and something yawns open and aches in his chest as he thinks about it, trying desperately to pull up an image of her. Even the mother – Winnifred – he can barely remember her— and he can’t remember the father at _all_. (Except. _Except._ He’d given him a train once, for Christmas, right? He had remembered that when Beck had tried to trigger him.)

The memory of Beck’s attempt and the things it had triggered rises in his mind, and he sits up slightly, his eyes wide as he thinks back. He can remember Alice, on her first birthday, being held by— by his Ma which— which—

He’s not exactly sure what he had thought the word Ma had meant before now. Maybe some part of him had taken the word and decided it translated into some form of handler. He’d _seen_ the word Ma before. His handler had used it in his journal when he’d talked about Ma Barnes and Becca and her baby, and _he’d_ used it in his flashbacks, for someone named Ma and Ma Rogers. He stares dazedly ahead of himself and can’t help thinking that ‘Ma’ and ‘Pa’ probably mean the same thing as ‘Mother’ and ‘Father’ or ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’.

He breathes out shakily and somehow manages to look back down at the page, focusing his eyes on the words again. His left hand clenches and he has to consciously move it to his knee so that he doesn’t damage the book. The book is Important. He cannot wreck it.

He keeps reading. 

_Barnes’ father, George, was born in Brooklyn, New York, and met his sweetheart Winnifred in the mid 1910s. Having moved from Romania with her family when she was six years old, Winnifred was an accomplished seamstress and she and George were married in 1916. A year later, Barnes was born, and just as quickly, George was drafted to fight with the Allies in the Great War._

He blinks, and for half a second, he can see a brown uniform, pressed and hung carefully in the back closet. Pa only ever wore it for Memorial Day, but when he was younger, he’d been deeply curious about the whole thing. Of course, Pa didn’t really talk about it—

His breath catches and he shakes his head, his right hand tightening on the cover of the book as he hunches in on himself, a fine tremor running through his shoulders. His breath is thin and laboured in his chest and he breathes in through his nose, trying to calm down. He swallows, breathing deep and deliberately before pressing his lips together, his teeth clenching. He doesn’t understand— or maybe he does, but it’s too big— too much to even _fathom_ — but, but he doesn’t _need_ to understand yet. He just needs to read, so that he can _know_ , and then he can figure out what it means _later_. Yes.

He breathes out and blinks his eyes into focus, looking back at the page. In the background, he’s vaguely aware of someone taking a half-step into the aisle where he’s sitting, only to step back out just as quickly, and he’s aware on some level that most people do not sit on the floor, hunched protectively over their finds, but he does not care very much, his world meaningless beyond the book in his hands.

_George’s service was largely unremarkable,_ the book continues, _and he returned uninjured to his wife and infant child in November of 1918, at the end of the war. The Barnes’ were a working class family, although they generally seemed to make ends meet. George worked for a while in a canning factory, before moving on to working as an assistant grocer, which was not only closer to home, but also allowed him to bring in extra supplies._

_Winnifred’s time was primarily occupied by her four children, however, she continued to take in sewing and laundry work to help support the family. Both of Barnes’ parents were educated, although it is hard to say to what degree. They were both literate – as evidenced by the journals and letters they left behind – and there are records of Winnifred’s high school education, but it is unlikely that either of them continued schooling beyond that point. In any case, anecdotal evidence shows that Winnifred and George were highly invested in their children’s education, something to which Barnes’ exceptional academic record may be attributed to._

As he reads, he isn’t really that aware of his surroundings, the book taking precedence over everything else. But, he does notice when a shadow falls over his lap, and he darts his head up to see Banner standing there, looking down on him with a neutral expression on his face. He finds himself instinctively clinging to the book, his shoulders tensing at the crushing, split-second worry that Banner might disapprove of it and try to _take it_ _away_. He can’t— he can’t take it yet. He needs— he needs to finish it. He can’t lose it yet.

After a drawn out second of tension, Banner crouches so that he’s not looming over him anymore, and the Asset watches him go down with wary eyes, hardly daring to breathe as he presses the book into his lap. Maybe if he can keep Banner from seeing the title, he will let him keep reading, if he doesn’t know what the book is _about_ —

“Do you want to borrow that?” Banner’s eyes flick to the book before looking up to meet his gaze. “I brought my library card.”

The Asset stares at him, frozen, and Banner lets the silence sit between them, seemingly infinitely patient. After a minute or two, the Asset manages to pull in a deep breath, reminding himself that he has yet to be punished by any of the Avengers, and that they don’t _approve_ of that sort of thing, and that Banner wouldn’t offer to borrow the book if he wasn’t serious, and that he _probably_ won’t take it away. And, if he wants to read the book, he’s going to have to borrow it.

He nods mutely and Banner offers him a sliver of a smile. “Okay,” he says softly. “We can do that now, if you want.”

The Asset swallows, trying to steel himself, before he closes the book and clutches it to his chest in one smooth motion. He holds it close to himself with one arm, the cover hidden from Banner, while using his other arm to help lever himself up off the ground. Banner follows him up, his knees cracking as he stands up straight, and the Asset stands silently, his other arm coming up to wrap around the book while he stares at Banner, waiting until he turns to lead the way back to the library front desk. 

The Asset follows, only now noticing that Banner has a book of his own, and he watches as the man places it on the desk in front of the librarian, chatting lightly with her as he pulls out his card and waits for her to scan the book. Transaction completed, he accepts his card and book back, and turns invitingly towards him, waiting as the Asset takes a step closer to the desk.

The librarian smiles at him as he comes closer, and the Asset stops in front of her, his tongue pressing into the roof of his mouth. He knows that now he needs to put the book down, so that the librarian can scan the barcode and tell him when it is due, but— but he can’t seem to get his arms to unlock. He can’t stop the persistent, terrifying thought that if he lets go of the book – even for a second – that it will get taken away, that he will _lose_ it, and he can’t— he can’t lose it, not yet. He can’t risk it. His arms tighten around the book.

“Maybe… we’ll try self-check out,” Banner tells the lady, and she nods amiably, clicking something on her computer as Banner prompts him towards the set of self-check out machines near the doors of the building. He doesn’t touch him – which the Asset is grateful for, since he feels pulled taut like a string right now – and he stops a few feet away from the machines once they arrive, giving him space. “Here,” he says, holding out his library card. “Just hold it under the red laser.”

The Asset swallows and peels one arm away from its protective hold in order to take the offered card. He steps up to the machine and presents the card, waiting as the machine beeps and indicates for him to continue. He presses his lips together before he very carefully sets the book facedown under the scanner, keeping one hand firmly on the book as he waits for the barcode to register. The instant the machine beeps the book is back in his arms, the title carefully hidden away as he stiffly returns the card to Banner.

Banner doesn’t seem disturbed by his odd behaviour, taking his card easily before turning towards the door leading outside, his one shoulder angled back towards him in an open invitation to follow. The Asset complies, silently falling into place a half-a-step behind Banner. Banner seems to wait for a moment longer, before he finally sets off, and the Asset follows quietly, the solid weight of the book in his arms the only thing keeping him grounded as he turns over what he’d been able to read in his head.

The information in the book is perplexing beyond degree. It doesn’t make any sense because it’s busy acting like— like he’s a _person_ , with a family and a childhood and— He breathes in and grits his teeth in frustration because, while the things in the book _can’t_ be true… at the same time… he _knows_ some of the things it had been talking about. He _knows_ girls named Alice and Becca and— and hadn’t he already decided that he’d been born? He can remember having a birthday and— and— and babies aren’t _born_ already trained.

Babies aren’t born with protocols. They have to be taught that sort of thing. So, if he’d been born to— to Winnifred and George Barnes, then… there would have been a period before— Before. Before he had been trained. Before he had been trained to be an asset for his handler.

Ahead of him, Banner stops at the crosswalk to wait for the light, and the Asset stops behind him, but his movements are mostly automatic at this point, his mind too preoccupied with the dilemma it had sunk its teeth into.

Can he… can he _remember_ being trained before Handler-Steve? He can remember _meeting_ his handler, he had introduced himself as Bucky Barnes and he must have started working with his handler after that but— but he can’t remember any handlers during that period, and he can’t remember getting _trained_ before that. He can remember Hydra’s training. Yes. He can remember that, but he can’t remember how he’d been trained _before_ that.

And he _had_ worked with his handler before Hydra. He can remember going on missions with him when he’d gotten big. He can _remember_ that. His handler had been his handler Before, he just— he just can’t remember how he’d gone from being Bucky Barnes, to being the Asset.

He’d thought he’d been the Asset before. He’d thought he’d been the Asset _always_ , just with different handlers. And Handler-Steve had been his _best_ handler, and he’d been his handler _before_ Hydra but— but he hadn’t been called the Asset then. He’d been called Bucky and Sergeant Barnes.

He thinks back to the name the book had mentioned. _James Buchanan Barnes._ Had that been his name before Before? _Known as “Bucky” to his friends and family_ , the book had said. His stomach churns and he doesn’t know what to think. He can’t remember enough to understand— he doesn’t know what it _means_ —

He blinks and almost stumbles as he follows Banner weaving around the pedestrians in front of them, inspiration dawning. _He_ might not know what it means but… but his _handler_ had talked about Ma Barnes and Becca. He _had_ — his heart leaps with his realisation and his hands tighten around his book. His handler had known these people. He’d known them at some point, so maybe if he asks—

His heart drops and despair closes over him, his breath catching in his chest. How can he— how can he possibly ask his handler about this? In front of him, the approaching tower looms and a weight in his stomach seems to grow the closer he and Banner get to it. The book presses accusingly into his chest and part of him suddenly wishes he hadn’t borrowed it.

He’d wanted to keep it hidden from Banner, on the off chance that it isn’t allowed, and part of him had been subconsciously planning on keeping it hidden from his handler _too_ , but of course that is hardly practical. Even if he manages to get it into his room and tucked away in his drawer without his handler noticing – which is unlikely – he won’t actually be able to _read_ the thing with his handler around.

 _And_ , even if he managed all that, JARVIS could still report him if the book is truly not allowed, and he _still won’t know what it means_.

Tears of frustration prick at his eyes and he ducks his head as he and Banner approach the entrance to the building. Banner holds the door open for him, and the Asset steps through, a familiar feeling of dread settling in his stomach as he tries to find a solution to his problem. No matter how he thinks about it, he can’t stop coming back to the conclusion that he’s going to have to ask his handler about the book.

If he wants answers, and if he wants to be able to read the book, he’s going to need to show it to his handler. The only problem is that if his handler does not want him to have the book, then he will lose it without ever getting the chance to finish it.

 _Handler-Steve has never taken anything away from me before_ , he reminds himself, thinking of his secret stash in his dresser. _He is a_ good _handler._ That doesn’t ease the sick feeling that settles in his stomach as he separates from Banner and rides the elevator up to his rooms. His pulse pounds heavy in his head as he exits the elevator and nears the door to his room, and after a moment, he stumbles to a halt outside, his breath tight in his chest.

He fumbles with the book, holding it out so that he can open it again—just one last time before he does anything else, just so that he can look at it again, just in case. He pulls it open without much of a plan, but the book has a collection of photographs in the middle, and the glossy texture of the pages causes it to open automatically to the first picture.

He stares at the pencil portrait of a smiling woman that fills the page. Her hair is pinned up in curls and a bit of lace sits at her throat before the image fades away. Her eyes seem to twinkle and catch on his as his gaze drops down to read the caption for the photo. _Fig. 1_ , it reads, _Winnifred Barnes. c.1935. Steve Rogers._

He stands frozen for a moment before the words come together and make sense. Steve Rogers… is the artist. His _handler_ is the artist. He had drawn Winnifred Barnes. He had drawn his _mother_. 

Tears rise again in his eyes and he closes the book, ducking his head. His handler had known these people – these people who might be his family – there is no question about it. And… and surely, if his handler had been willing to draw Winnifred… he wouldn’t mind if the Asset were to _ask_ about her, right?

He takes in a deep breath and squares his shoulders, his hands tightening on the book as he sets his jaw. He glances down again for half-a-second and stares at the recoloured image of himself on the cover, standing proudly amid the rest of the Howling Commandos, before he breathes in through his nose and steps over to let himself inside the room.

There’s music going when he steps inside, one of the records his handler had gotten, and despite his resolve, his stomach still somersaults at the knowledge that his handler is currently home, and that he will have to confront him right away. The plastic cover of the book crinkles under his hand as he clutches at it protectively and closes the door behind him as quietly as possible.

His heart pounds loud in his ears as he edges down the short hallway towards the living room, and he stops just short of entering, watching as his handler hums to himself on the couch, a few files in his lap and a stack on the coffee table in front of him. He flips through his current file, his shoulders relaxed as he skims its contents, perfectly at ease as he twirls a pen in his hand. The Asset wonders if he will be just as relaxed in a few minutes.

There’s no way to avoid it, and he takes a step forward, alerting his handler to his presence. Handler-Steve jumps slightly, fumbling with his pen but smiling amiably as he turns to him. “Oh Bucky, I didn’t know you were back,” he says. “Did you have a good trip?”

The Asset nods mutely and moves closer to the couch, the edges of his book digging into his arms. His handler watches his approach, seeming to sense something coming as his eyes flick from his face down to the book in his arms. “What did you find?” he asks, quieter than before, shifting so that the Asset can sit down on the couch next to him.

The Asset complies, coming around to sit on the far side, breathing in slowly through his nose and swallowing heavily as he tries to work up his courage. He grits his teeth for a moment and his handler continues to watch him silently as he finally manages to move his arms jerkily away from his chest, placing the book on the cushion between them and spinning it around so that his handler can read the title. The song on the record ends, the newfound silence doing nothing for the Asset’s nerves as he pulls his hand away from the book.

Handler-Steve’s eyes flick over the cover and the Asset can tell when he picks up on its implications, his eyes widening slightly as they dart up to look at him, his gaze suddenly tense.

The look sends anxious tendrils squirming through his gut, and he presses his metal hand to his stomach, trying to ground himself. He breathes in slowly, the knuckles of his right hand whitening as he grips the couch cushion next to him. “That’s… that’s me,” he gets out thinly, darting his eyes over his handler before dropping them down to the book. “This book…’s ‘bout me,” he gets out. “An’— And it said I had—” He sucks in another breath, his hand continuing to press into his stomach. “It said I had a _family_. That I was born to them, an’ I had sisters and parents but I don’t— I don’t _understand_.”

He has to look away because his vision is getting blurry and for several seconds, his handler doesn’t respond, the silence crawling up and down the Asset’s spine like an anxious spider.

At last, his handler lets out a long slow sigh, and the Asset blinks his vision clear enough to look back up at him. Handler-Steve’s face a strained, his eyes now distantly focused on the window behind the TV. After a moment, he looks back at him and runs a hand through his hair. “You’re right,” he says softly, tapping the book cover with one finger, the plastic crinkling. “This book is about you, and – I haven’t read it – but I imagine the things it says about your family are true.”

The Asset’s mouth drops open in mute shock, and he stares at his handler, trying to wrap his brain around what he’d just said. His handler watches him for a minute before setting the files in his lap onto the coffee table and running a hand down his face, letting out a low groan. “Buck–” He looks up at him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how much you remember. I know you remember _some_ things, but I— but I wasn’t sure how much, and I had _no_ idea how to bring this up at all.”

The Asset looks down at the book and then back up at his handler, his mind desperately grappling for facts he can be sure about. “I don’t understand,” he says, trying to keep the desperate tone out of his voice. “Why did I have a family? Why did the Asset have a family?”

“Why did—” His handler’s face twists into something painful for a second before he leans forward. “Bucky,” he says intently, trying to catch his eye. “Buck, you weren’t the Asset before this. You weren’t the Asset before Hydra.”

The Asset tries to say something, but he ends up just staring open-mouthed at his handler, his mind glitching like a broken record. A thin sort of whine escapes his throat and he shakes his head. “No,” he says, trying to grab at the pieces of his life he’d thought he’d figured out. “No. You were my handler before. I remember. When you were small. And we went on missions when you were big.”

His handler’s eyes flick over him, something deeply sad in their depths, and he breathes in slowly, leaning back. “Okay,” he says slowly, before pressing a hand to his mouth. He nods to himself and drops his hand to run along his pants, his eyes focusing on the Asset shoulder. “Okay, I thought that might be what you thought, from some of the things you’ve said.” He takes in a deep breath and looks up at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at him. “I wasn’t your handler before this, Buck,” he says softly. “You didn’t _have_ handlers before Hydra.”

The Asset can barely feel his left hand pressing into his stomach anymore, everything is numb, like he isn’t quite attached to his body anymore, and there’s a ringing in his ears. “But–” He sucks in a breath. “But we went on missions together.” He holds onto that fact with both hands because he _knows_ it’s true. His eyes jump to the cover of the book, with the Howling Commandos, before looking back up at his handler. He can _remember_ going on missions with him.

His handler nods slowly. “Yes,” he concedes, following his gaze to the book and back up again. “Yes, we did but–” He runs a hand over his face and looks at him. “We worked _together_ Buck. We were a team. Like I am with the Avengers now. You followed me because you trusted me, not because you were afraid I’d hurt you if you didn’t.”

“A team,” the Asset echoes, trying to wrap his brain around the concept.

Handler-Steve nods before chewing on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “I know this is confusing Buck,” he says. “I don’t know how much you remember… but there was a war going on. The missions we went on were because we were fighting a war.”

The Asset sits up slightly. “The Great War,” he quotes, remembering the line from the book.

His handler shakes his head. “That was the first one,” he says. “Our dads fought in that one. There was another one, the Second World War, twenty years later, in 1939.” He runs a hand through his hair and looks over at the Asset. “You got drafted,” he says flatly, an old pain in his eyes. “You didn’t actually tell me that’s why you joined, and you didn’t know I knew… but I found the letter in your jacket, and you left for training in 1943.”

The Asset blinks, staring as a vague memory of when he had snuck into his handler’s room to find evidence of the small boy rises in his mind. _A war happened,_ his handler had said. _And my friend got taken away to fight. And I couldn’t do anything because I was too small._ His mouth drops open and he snaps his eyes up to look at his handler because he realises abruptly that _he_ might have been that friend. The friend his handler had gone after, once he had gotten the serum.

“I couldn’t join because I was too sick,” his handler continues to explain as the Asset stares at him, sucking in his information like a man dying of thirst. “But once I got the serum…” He rolls his shoulders. “I got big,” he says, matter-of-fact. “But they didn’t want me to fight because my serum was valuable, and they couldn’t recreate it.” His mouth twitches. “I worked with a tour group instead, going around raising war bonds.” His eyes go distant for a second and they flick to somewhere behind the Asset’s head.

“But…” The Asset shifts and looks down at the book again. “But you _did_ fight.” He glances up at his handler. “You led the Howling Commandos.”

His handler’s eyes refocus, and he flashes him a small smile. “Yeah,” he says. “But that was only after I broke protocol to go after you.” The Asset blinks and his handler’s smile twitches. “I was in Italy, with the tour group,” he says. “And I learned your unit was captured.” A glimmer of pain flickers in his eyes and he looks away. “They told me you were dead, and that they couldn’t mount a rescue operation. But I was tired of being put on the sidelines.” He looks back at him, a familiar stubbornness in his eyes. “If I couldn’t go and try and rescue my friend, what was even the _point_ of getting the serum?”

 _Friend._ He’d said friend. He’d been right about that.

“You rescued us,” the Asset says, suddenly absolutely certain of the fact.

His handler nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Looking back, it was reckless. But–” He looks at him, his eyes suddenly bright. “But you _were_ alive. I found you, and got you and the rest of the POWs out of there, and I don’t regret it for a minute.” His eyes dim for a moment and flick over him. “Zola was experimenting on you though,” he says, a mournful tone to his voice. “I didn’t know it at the time, but he gave you a knock-off version of the serum I got.”

The Asset’s eyes widen as he remembers flashes of a freezing metal table, a multitude of needles and of a man staring at him over a pair of round glasses. “That’s when I got the serum,” he breathes, because he hadn’t thought about it before. He’d known he’d been given it, but, like everything else, he’d assumed it had been done to him Before, when he’d been younger. Now, like everything else it seems, Hydra had done it to him, After.

“Yes,” his handler says softly. “You didn’t tell me. I don’t know why and, really, I guess it was your business but…” He grimaces. “It meant that I didn’t know you could survive when you fell.”

The Asset nods slowly. “I fell from the train…” He remembers, his eyes flicking to his handler. “We were going after Zola.”

His handler breathes in and rubs a hand over his mouth. “Yeah,” he says finally. “And I thought you’d died when you fell.” His eyes glance up at his, their depths forlorn and pleading. “Hydra found you after, and I didn’t know you were alive until they brought me to you a few months ago and wanted me to be your handler.”

His throat flexes and his hands clench on his pants. “I didn’t want to,” he says, his eyes staring into him. “I swear to you Buck, if I could have taken you out of there immediately, I would have.” He breathes in and his hands shake slightly on his legs. “We were trying to take down Hydra and figure out what their plan was, and I couldn’t take you out until we had taken them down but…” He grimaces and looks down.

The Asset swallows and tries to pull up a few hazy memories of his time with his handler in the Vault. It makes a bit more sense now, why his handler had been such a better handler than the rest. Also… it also explains a little why he’d followed his handler’s orders over Hydra’s. Not because his handler had been his original handler, but because he’d been his _friend._

“Once we got back to the tower…” His handler looks up at him, his face slightly pale. “I didn’t know what to do. You still thought I was your handler and you were so—” He presses his lips together and clenches his teeth. “I mean… you were afraid to even use my _hairbrush_ , Buck. I didn’t know how to explain to you that you were a person.”

The Asset blinks as he remembers the first few terrifying days in the tower, where he’d constantly been on edge, intent on pleasing his handler at all costs. Even his handler’s assurances and decency had been met with suspicion, and it had taken months for him to slowly learn to trust in his new situation.

“Maybe I should have told you earlier,” his handler continues, a look of conflict on his face. “The Avengers and I talked about it sometimes. We weren’t sure how much to tell you or not.” He runs a restless hand through his hair and looks at him. “I wanted you to be able to remember on your own. I was afraid that if I tried to tell you too much too quickly you would think your memories were just… complying with what I wanted. I wanted you to be able to trust what you were remembering.” 

The Asset finds himself nodding slowly as he digests what his handler is saying. It’s so… _much_ , that he can hardly comprehend it all. But he can remember when his handler had told him he’d been captured by Hydra and given the trigger words. At the time, he’d thought that Hydra had stolen him, and that they had had to make the trigger words because they weren’t his real handlers. And… he hadn’t been wrong exactly. They _weren’t_ his handler, because he hadn’t _had_ handlers before them.

He glances down at the book between them and looks up at his handler. “We were fighting Hydra,” he says. “In the war.”

His handler nods in confirmation. “Yes,” he says. “And everyone thought we had beaten them, but I found them again, after I woke up, and they’ve been working undercover since the end of the war.”

The Asset nods, because there’s nothing else he can do at this point. His handler’s explanation of his life fits better than the explanation he’d come up with. It makes sense now, why Handler-Steve had been such a lax handler in his memories, especially when they had been small, because… they hadn’t been Asset and Handler. They had just been kids.

A sudden thought sparks in his mind and he reaches forward for the book, flipping it open to the collection of photos in the middle. The first page is the portrait of his mother, but he can remember that there had been a reference to a Fig. 2 in the first chapter. He flips the page and finds himself confronted by the sepia image of a smiling family. He looks up at his handler before dropping his gaze back down.

It’s a staged photo. A woman – Winnifred, he can recognise her – sits in a wicker chair, wearing a spotted dress, a small smile on her face. Next to her, on another chair, a man sits in a pressed suit, his hair slicked back away from his face. On the floor, a girl of about ten sits, leaning against his knee, her hair in styled ringlets. Another, older girl sits on a stool at the feet of Winnifred, her hands clasped on her knees and a brightness in her eyes. Winnifred has one hand on her shoulder, mirroring the pose of the oldest girl as she stands behind her mother, her hair pinned up. Finally, his own face stares back at him, his hair slicked back like his father’s, looking younger and livelier in his spot behind his father’s shoulder.

 _The Barnes family,_ the caption reads. _c.1936._

His vision blurs again as he looks over the picture and he pulls the book closer to himself. Their faces are both familiar and foreign, but he can remember just barely enough. Bits and pieces that let him know the truth of everything his handler and the book have been saying. His fingers glance over the glossy finish of the page as the monumental truth settles over him. “This…” He swallows against the lump rising in his throat. “This is my family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it finally happened! Bucky finally knows that he has not been the Asset for forever, and that he has a family. Of course, this is only the beginning. Bucky hasn’t even begun to explore what this revelation actually means and what it means for him, but now he can start. 
> 
> Besides that, I thought Banner was really sensitive here while Bucky was busy panicking about his book, poor guy was really confused for this chapter. And Steve also was probably not expecting a book to be what pushes this revelation on Bucky.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset learns more about his family and the consequences of time.

His throat feels swollen with unshed tears and he can’t seem to stop looking at the photo in front of him. After a few moments he turns it to face his handler, and Handler-Steve’s eyes are looking a little glassy too. “This is Winnifred,” the Asset says, pointing to his mother before flipping to the first picture of her. “You drew her here.”

His handler’s mouth turns into a little ‘O’ of surprise and he leans closer to the book, reaching up as if to take it, before just as quickly dropping his hands when the Asset tenses. “Oh, I didn’t realise they would put one of my pictures in there,” he breathes, his eyes bright.

The Asset nods, and flips business-like back to the family picture, trying to remember the names the book had given him. He points to the father. “George,” he says, eyeing his handler until he nods. He points to each girl in succession, starting with the oldest. “Becca, Alice, and… Hannah.” He stares at Hannah a moment longer because she’s the one he remembers the least before he looks back up at his handler.

“Yes,” his handler says quietly. “That’s them.” A smile suddenly flashes over his face and he looks up at him, shaking his head. “You doted on those girls.”

The Asset feels a ghost of a smile glide over his face at the thought and he looks quietly over the picture of the three girls, trying to memorize their faces. “What… happened to them?” He looks up at his handler, his hand tightening on the book at the sudden _important_ thought. “Where are they? Do you know?”

His handler opens his mouth for a second before simply staring at him, seemingly at a loss for words. He sighs quietly and sits back slightly. “You… Buck, you know you were with Hydra for a long time, right?” he asks carefully and the Asset nods slowly. His handler grimaces slightly and runs a hand through his hair. “Okay,” he says quietly, blowing out a breath and looking up at him. “So… after I woke up… SHIELD gave me a lot of files to help me catch up on things.”

The Asset watches him silently, he’s not exactly sure what his handler means by ‘woke up’, or where he’s going with this, but a shadow of sadness settles over his handler’s face as he speaks, making the Asset clutch the book a little closer to himself.

“They gave me some files on the Commandos,” his handler continues. “So I could know what happened to them. But afterwards I looked up the Barneses too. They were like family to me too, you know, and I just…” He trails off for a second before taking in a breath. “Ma Barnes was the first one to go,” he says softly, looking down as he fiddles with his fingers. “She had a stroke in ’72. She was seventy-four when she died.”

The bottom drops out of the Asset’s stomach and he feels his lungs stall, his eyes wide and locked onto his handler. His hands clutch the book subconsciously and his mind races. _You know you were with Hydra for a long time, right?_ his handler had asked. He had known that, he had, but he’d forgotten how time worked for everyone else. Time hadn’t used to _touch_ him before. But now it feels like it’s swinging back around and punching him full in the face.

“George Barnes lived longer,” his handler says, glancing up at him. “He died of old age in 1989. He was ninety-three.” He shifts, drawing one leg up on to the couch with him. “Becca… she was pregnant when we were at war.”

The Asset nods because he can remember reading that, and he leans forward, suddenly desperate for more information. “Did she have her baby?”

His handler’s mouth eases into a smile. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Noah Proctor. He was born in January, before you died. I drew a picture of you to send home so that Becca could show him.” The Asset nods and blinks, his eyes feeling wet as he leans back again. “She had another child,” his handler continues. “Leah. But she died in a biking accident as a teenager. Becca died in 1998.”

The Asset can do nothing but stare as his handler unloads a lifetime of information on him. He’d just barely begun to think of these people as alive and connected to him and now… He swallows and watches as his handler shifts and catches his eye. “Noah got married though,” he says. “And he’s still alive. He has two kids. Scott and Kimberly Proctor.” The corner of his mouth edges up. “Scott’ll be forty this year, and Kimberly’s turning thirty-five.” He gives him a small smile. “You have a nephew Buck, and a great-nephew and niece.” 

The Asset opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. The idea is so out of the blue that he’s not sure how to even process it. He’d started this day without even knowing he’d _had_ a family, and now he learns it had been busy growing this whole time. “What… what about Alice?” he gets out finally. “And Hannah?”

His handler brings a hand up and rubs the back of his neck. “For Alice… I don’t know if you remember, but she was engaged before we both got sent of to Europe.” The Asset shakes his head and his handler’s mouth twitches. “He was a nice fella,” he says. “Named Liam. He died in the war though. Got stationed in the Pacific.” He drops his arm. “Alice never married after that. She became a nurse, I think.” He looks up at him. “She died in 2009. She was eighty-five.”

The Asset presses his lips together, trying to hold back the rush of feelings swirling in his chest, his mind racing. 2009. That had only been four years ago. He’d missed her by four years.

“Hannah’s still alive though.” He darts his head up to look at his handler and hardly dares to breathe. “She got married to someone named Sean,” his handler continues. “They never had any kids and she’s a widow now. She’s eighty-seven, and she still lives in state.”

The Asset sits up abruptly, staring at his handler. “She’s still alive?” he repeats, his heart pounding.

His handler looks back at him. “Yeah,” he says softly. “She’s still alive. She lives upstate.”

The Asset lets out a shuddery breath and pulls back, drawing a hand up to cover his eyes, the aching in his chest sharper than before. Of all his sisters… Hannah is the only one still alive. But— Tears press at his eyelids and he swallows. “I don’t remember her,” he says hollowly. “I don’t— I didn’t even know I _had_ a third sister until today.”

When he looks up, his handler looks devastated, his face reflecting the Asset’s own feelings. The Asset’s stomach churns unhappily, and he lurches up suddenly from the couch, setting his book aside and breathing in as he makes his way determinedly over to his dresser. He pulls open the first drawer and roots around single-mindedly until he finds his first journal, the book now stuck full of colourful sticky notes.

“This is what I can remember,” he says, coming back to the couch and thrusting the book towards his handler. “Romanoff gave it to me, and I wrote down—” He trails off self-consciously and can’t quite get himself to meet his handler’s eyes. “The orange tabs are the ones from when you were small,” he mumbles finally.

His handler looks at the book with wide eyes and reaches for it reverently. For his part, the Asset feels a small burst of unease at the idea of revealing such an important secret, but he shoves it down, the rest of him more focused on getting as many answers as he can to the bits and pieces of his life that he can remember.

He sits down and watches as his handler pulls the book towards himself, slowly flipping through a few of the pages, his eyes darting over the various entries. “This is really amazing, Buck,” he says quietly, and the Asset finds his shoulders relaxing at the praise. After a few minutes his handler looks up at him, his eyes suddenly bright.

“I’m sure you’ll remember Hannah,” he says quickly. “You just need some time.” He taps his thumb against the journal, his knee bouncing excitedly on the couch. “But what if _I_ showed you something? I could show you what I remember. With Tony’s tech.”

The Asset’s eyes widen and he almost gasps, sitting up straight as his mind spins at the implications of his handler’s offering. “Yes,” he says breathlessly. “Yes. Now. Please.”

His handler smiles excitedly and looks up at the ceiling, the journal loose in his hands. “JARVIS,” he says, a note of anticipation in his voice. “Where’s Tony? Can you ask him to get the BARF tech ready for me and Bucky?”

JARVIS replies affirmatively and tells them that Stark will meet them in the BARF room. The Asset’s stomach swoops with nerves as he stands up, accepting his journal back from his handler and putting it away with shaking hands, his mind abuzz. He still can’t quite yet grasp the magnitude of everything his handler had told him. It’s so big, so _much_ , that he feels it might rise up and swallow him if he tries to figure it all out at once.

Instead he tries to focus on one thing at a time, the small things that he can accept and understand. Like the fact that he has a living sister and that his handler can show her to him. His hands tremble in anticipation and nerves as he turns to follow his handler out of the room, and his thoughts race as they make their way down to the BARF room. He finds himself pulling up every memory he can of his family, trying to reconcile himself with the idea that they had all been Before. Of course, it makes sense if he thinks about it, but it’s so far from _anything_ he’d been thinking that it’s hard to process.

Something else steals his thoughts for a moment though, and he looks up at his handler as the elevator begins bringing them down. “What about the Commandos?” he asks quietly, his right hand coming to clench discretely at his pants. “What happened to them?”

A flicker of sadness passes over his handler’s face and he looks down. His shoulders heave up and down and he looks up. “They’re all dead too,” he says quietly, flicking his eyes towards him. “I think Morita was the last one to go, in 2010.”

Something twists unhappily in his stomach and the Asset looks down and away, turning over the new information in his brain. He supposes in a way it makes sense, for everyone to be gone, even if his chest feels hollow at the thought. His handler had said that his first Hydra mission had been eight years after he had been captured, in 1953. So that would mean he had been captured sometime in 1945, two years after going to war. If it’s 2013 now, then he had been working for Hydra for about sixty-eight years. Almost a lifetime. It makes sense then, that everyone he’d known before would have already lived out their lives.

Everyone but his handler. His eyes flick up and he stares at him, wondering for the first time how his handler can be here with him, looking like hardly a day has passed since 1945.

He doesn’t have much time to wonder because the elevator opens and they both step out. Stark is indeed waiting for them when they get to the BARF room, his arms swinging as he gives Handler-Steve a mock salute and gets to work. It's obvious he’s curious about the impromptu session, and his eyebrow raises in surprise when he learns that it’s Handler-Steve who wants to use it, but he shows him the basics of how to use the machine and then gets out of their way, leaving them in private to explore his handler’s chosen memory.

The Asset’s heart pounds unreasonably fast as he watches his handler put on the glasses and he shifts his feet in a mix of impatience and uneasiness as he waits for the machines to be turned on. His handler clicks something at the computer desk before stepping closer to the middle of the room, and the Asset finds his tongue pressing into the roof of his mouth as he waits with bated breath for the hologram projectors to turn on.

An image flickers in front of them, and the Asset stands frozen, watching as a narrow brown house comes into view, its two stories flanked by other narrow houses. “Oh,” his handler breathes as two boys dressed in shorts and holding bookbags come into view, walking next to each other on the sidewalk. As he watches, his handler lets out a little laugh and shakes his head. “I didn’t realise it would show my colourblindness.”

The Asset blinks at his handler and looks back towards the projection, noting the predominately yellow and brown tinge to the scene. He’s abruptly reminded of a moment long ago, when he had been watching a movie with his handler, and had felt the pressing need to tell his handler the colours on screen. His mouth drops open and he stares, understanding dawning.

“I could see blue too,” his handler says, his eyes following the two boys as they walk towards the house. “But this is basically how everything looked before the serum.” The Asset closes his mouth and nods, silently watching the two boys — one blond, that must be his handler when he had been small, and one brown haired that must be… must be him from Before — as they climb the steps to the house.

“This was your house,” his handler says quietly as the holo-Bucky pushes open the door, the scene shifting so they can see inside the building. Holo-Bucky turns to laugh at something holo-Steve had said, giving the Asset a chance to take in the entryway. A set of coat hooks hang on the wall behind the door, which the boys make use of as they set their bags down. In front of them, a narrow staircase leads upwards, but they turn towards what must be the living room of the house.

It is sparsely furnished, the wood floor bare of any carpet, the front window on their right letting light in onto the worn planks. In the far wall across from the entrance sits a well used fireplace, with a clock on the mantel, and two chairs, a stool, and a rocking chair next to it. There is a padded couch against to the window too, with a basket of mending next to it and an old sewing machine.

The Asset’s eyes rest on the sewing machine for a moment, remembering how the book had said that his mother was a seamstress, before he glances over at the wall across from the window. Against it there is a writing desk with a cabinet above, the glass panes revealing a few books, binders, and prized possessions, while next to it sits a radio and a cabinet with a record player.

 _“We’re home!”_ The Asset is shocked out of his analysis of the living room as holo-Bucky calls out, making his way through the living room to the door next to the radio. A voice from beyond the door calls out a reply, but the Asset is distracted from it because something strange is happening with the audio of the hologram. The volume of the voices seems to change with the way holo-Steve turns his head, and beside him, his handler blinks in surprise, lifting a hand up to brush his left ear.

“I went deaf in one ear after getting real sick one time,” he explains softly, watching as the two boys make their way into the next room. 

It’s a kitchen, one the Asset can remember having seen before. He scans the room, taking in the bits and pieces that mesh with the brief flashes he had seen. The cast iron stove he can remember, a big hulking black thing sitting in the back of the room. Kitty corner to it is a sink, with a window looking out into the yard, and the boys quickly make their way around the wooden table in the middle of the room, heading for the sink to wash their hands. At the table, a woman stands, a blue apron over her dress and her hair up as she mixes something in a bowl, a small girl in a yellow dress sitting in the chair beside her.

 _“Hello boys,”_ the woman says with a smile, looking up from her work. Her voice is warm, and the Asset finds himself captivated by it. She looks over at his holo-self, using her wrist to brush away a strand of hair from her face before nodding towards the windows. _“Bucky, could you feed the chickens today? Becca is over at her friend’s house.”_

His holo-self makes a face at the request, but moves over to grab a pail sitting between the sink and the back door. Holo-Steve follows as well, chatting lightly about something that had happened at school that day, squinting a little as they open the door. They step out easily into the yard, although, from what the Asset can tell, it isn’t exactly a ‘yard’ by today’s standards. The ground is cobblestone, the high walls of the worn fence making the place seem enclosed and shaded. Still, there is a garden running along the side wall, and a small shed sitting in the back, a clothesline leading from it to the house, and a washtub piled high with washboards and other equipment sitting next to it.

“Your Ma used to take in laundry,” his handler says, his eyes on the scene as the two boys make their way to a wire pen in the far corner of the yard. “Sometimes we’d help her out after school.” The corner of his mouth crooks up into a smile. “One time, we were trying to hang a sheet, but we accidentally knocked down the whole line, and we had to wash everything all over again.”

The Asset nods, his eyes wide as he takes in the new information, watching as his holo-self takes care in feeding the two chickens in the pen – whom his handler informs him had been named Toast and Bacon. The names make him smile, and after the feeding, the boys return inside, to find Winnifred facing the stove, stirring something in a large pot.

 _“Can you take Hannah up with you while you do your homework?”_ she asks, throwing a glance at the boys as they come in. _“I need to finish this before your father comes home.”_

The Asset’s eyes widen as he realises that the little girl at the table must be Hannah, his long-lost sister, and he looks back at her, taking her in with greater appreciation. “We’re probably about twelve in this,” his handler tells him quietly. “So she’s about four.”

He nods mutely and watches as holo-Bucky moves over to Hannah, the little girl kicking her feet and smiling cheerily at him. “ _Com’on Hannah,_ ” holo-Bucky says, reaching out for her. “ _Let’s go upstairs. You can play with my dominos if ya want.”_

For her part, Hannah huffs and shoves his arms away. “ _I can do it_ myself _,”_ she insists, before turning to painstakingly push herself off the chair, her face screwed up in concentration as her feet dangle a few inches off the ground.

Holo-Bucky grins at her and crouches down, pulling his arms back and hooking his fingers into claws. _“Are you sure?”_ he teases. “ _Cuz I’m pretty sure a_ tickle monster’s _waitin’ down here for you!”_

Hannah lets out a shriek of delight and pushes herself the rest of the way to the floor, taking off like a shot towards the living room. Holo-Bucky is up and after her in an instant, laughing easily as he pretends to miss her, while gently herding her towards the stairs. Holo-Steve follows, his eyes bright as he sweeps up their bookbags by the door and pretends to fight holo-Bucky off long enough for Hannah to get a head start up the stairs.

She makes it to the top, before his holo-self catches up and sweeps her through an open door into a small bedroom, opening his arms to let her bounce down onto the narrow bed before diving down and tickling her sides.

Hannah shrieks in laughter, arching her back and kicking her legs as she wiggles to get away. Holo-Steve ducks into the room, a smile on his face as he makes his way passed the dresser to the desk by the window and bed, depositing their bags and sitting down to watch the two siblings. 

Eventually Hannah gives in and gasps to be let up, unable to take any more. Holo-Bucky sits back, breathing a little heavily from their play and pushing his hair out of his eyes, a smile on his face. After a moment to catch his breath, he slides off the bed and reaches under it to pull out a thin ragged cardboard box. _“Here,”_ he says, motioning for Hannah to come down onto the floor and tugging a little at his shirt to straighten it out. _“You can play with these while Stevie and I do our work.”_

Hannah accepts, coming down to open the box, revealing a set of neatly stacked dominos. She dumps them out as she settles, and the scene fades out as holo-Bucky turns back to holo-Steve, standing up to reach for his book bag.

“That was when she was younger,” his handler says as he takes off the glasses and turns to look at him, his voice feeling loud after everything they had just seen. “You were about nine when she was born,” he continues. “She was sixteen when we left for war.”

The Asset watches the fading scene until the very last moment before turning to look at his handler, eyes wide at what he had just seen. The holo-Bucky is practically an entirely different person than him. He had been so carefree in the memory. It had been strange to watch, but he can tell just by _looking_ that there is no way he had been the Asset back then. Holo-Bucky had never gone through any of the training he had gone through. Hannah and the rest of his family really _had_ been his family back then, and he’d just been… Bucky.

“Can you show me?” he asks, his voice rasping in his throat and his hands shaking slightly as he rubs them on his pants. “Hannah,” he clarifies. “When she was…” He trails off and looks at his handler, suddenly pressed with the overwhelming need to know as _much as he can_ about this family that had apparently been his, and had been taken away.

His handler nods silently, his eyes flicking over him before he turns and puts on the glasses again, closing his eyes for a moment as he pulls up the memory he wants. The holograms flicker on again, and the living room shimmers into view, holo-Steve sitting in one of the chairs by the fireplace, next to a man holding a newspaper. It’s nighttime this time, the lit fireplace and a lamp on the writing desk casting a warm glow over the room. Time has passed since the last memory, reflected in the new drapes by the window and the rag rug on the floor. His holo-handler is older too, although still thin and bony, and he leans forward in conversation with the man— who the Asset abruptly realises must be George Barnes. 

_“I heard on the radio this morning that tomorrow they’re gonna be launching the_ USS New Jersey _,”_ holo-Steve says, George lowering his newspaper to look at him in interest. _“It's the largest battleship we’ve built yet, and of course they’re launching it on the anniversary of Pearl Harbor—”_

 _“Ah!”_ A voice, Winnifred’s, calls from the kitchen, both men turning towards the doorway as the woman herself appears, dressed in the same blue apron as before, a few extra patches on it now. _“No war-talk at my Sunday table_ ,” she says, waving a finger at holo-Steve. _“Steven Rogers, you know better._ ”

A laugh sounds from behind her and the Asset perks up as his holo-self comes into view from behind his mother, almost a good head taller than her now. _“Ah, Steve,”_ he teases, leaning through the doorway. “ _You know you’re in trouble when she starts usin’ full names.”_

Winnifred clucks and shoos him away. _“Go call your sisters,”_ she says. _“Supper’s almost ready.”_ Holo-Bucky laughs again and moves to head through the living room, towards the stairs.

“Your parents invited us over for supper every Sunday,” his handler explains, his gaze slightly wishful as he watches the scene. “We were living in our own apartment by then, and Becca was already married, but Alice and Hannah lived at home.” He huffs out a quiet breath. “Hannah was real keen on you moving out,” he says. “It meant she could move into your room and stop sharing with Alice. The three girls used to have to share one room together, you know. I can still remember the squabbles.”

 _“Com’on girls!”_ Holo-Bucky calls up the stairs, drawing the Asset back to the scene. Across from holo-Steve, George shakes his head and rolls his eyes, turning back to his newspaper, looking vaguely amused at holo-Bucky’s choice not to simply climb the steps and get his sisters that way. _“There’s no point in makin’ yourselves prettier,”_ holo-Bucky continues. “ _It’s just us.”_

Footsteps sound from above and a door swings open. _“I’m sure you spent just as long in front of the mirror, Bucky Barnes!”_ A woman calls down, before descending the stairs and coming into the light. Her hair is too dark to be Hannah’s, and she has a small engagement ring on her finger, causing the Asset to guess her to be Alice, his second sister. She’s wearing a dark coloured dress, although, with Handler-Steve’s colourblindness it’s hard to tell what colour it is. It sways around her legs as she comes down, and as she approaches, holo-Bucky sweeps into a teasing bow.

 _“Oh, I could never hope to match your abilities,”_ he says with a crooked smile. His sister huffs good naturedly at his antics but accepts his hand graciously as she steps down from the stairs and moves into the living room. A moment later, holo-Bucky looks up, and his eyes widen as he catches sight of another person on the stairs.

 _“Well, look at’you,”_ he says, a note of awe in his voice as Hannah steps down towards him, her hair pinned up on her head. Holo-Bucky steps closer, offering his hand again. _“You see this Steve,”_ he says incredulously, waving his free arm as he looks over at holo-Steve. _“My little sister thinks she can go and grow up on me_.”

Hannah rolls her eyes as she accepts holo-Bucky’s hand, only to gasp as he takes her arm and spins her around, dancing her across the room. A surprised laugh bursts out of her as her dress flairs out and she grabs onto holo-Bucky’s arms in an attempt not to fall.

 _“Ya sure you ain’t seeing anyone?”_ holo-Bucky asks as he stops and sweeps her down into a dip. _“If ya ‘re then I think I might hafta have some words with him first.”_ Hannah giggles and untangles herself with as much dignity as possible, patting her hair carefully as she stands upright.

“ _Oh lay off, Buck,”_ she says, her eyes glittering in the firelight. _“I don’t need you scarin’ people off when I could do it myself if I wanted to.”_

Holo-Bucky lets out a pleased laugh and moves to wrap an arm around her shoulder. _“Ya sure could, kid,”_ he says as he begins to lead her towards the kitchens. _“But you gotta promise to save a bit for me after, kay?”_

Hannah’s laughing reply fills the room as the rest of the family stands up to head to the kitchen and the scene begins to fade out. The Asset watches it go a little wistfully. The warmth of the memory had almost been palpable, and it’s hard to believe that that had really been _him_ having a grand time teasing and playing with his family. That had used to be _him_ , he’d used to be like that, confident and happy, and now he can hardly even imagine being that way.

“Bucky?” his handler asks quietly, taking off his glasses. “You alright?”

The Asset nods, his eyes still on the empty space where the hologram had been. “Yeah,” he says, his voice echoing in the room. “Yeah I just… have a lot to think about.”

oOo

His handler takes him back to their room, faint lines of worry on his face as he tells him to take his time with everything and to ask him if he has any questions. The Asset nods at him and then buries himself in his journals, pouring over the few memories he has of his family, before writing down what he knows now and trying to reorganise what he can remember.

With this significant, most important puzzle piece, he can understand the process of his life a bit better now, but it’s still— but it’s still hard to fathom. He _believes_ it. It makes sense… but he has no idea what to do with the information _now._

His handler says not to rush himself, and the look in his eyes gives the Asset the impression that his handler _also_ isn’t exactly sure where to go from here. The sentiment isn’t exactly comforting, and the Asset spends a long time just looking at the book that had started this all, not quite ready to open it again. Eventually nighttime falls and he sets it aside on his dresser before making up his bed in automatic motions, falling back on the familiar routine and trying to shut out his racing thoughts for a little while.

He supposes maybe he should have expected the nightmare, after learning the full magnitude of what Hydra had done to him.

_He finds himself standing in a large grey room, the edges of it blurring into darkness as he looks around. A clunk of engaging machinery echoes through the room and he flinches, whirling around to find a spotlight casting imposing shadows over the sudden presence of his recalibration chair._

_His breath catches and he stumbles back a step, his shoulders suddenly coming into contact with a wall of cold glass behind him. He shivers and tries to edge away, his heart pounding and his eyes pinned on the chair as if it might suddenly spring up and bite him._

_“Asset.”_

_He flinches again, his head snapping to the side to see Pierce coming out of the shadows, wearing his usual unflappable expression and impeccable suit. Pierce rocks on the balls of his feet and puts his hands in his pockets, tilting his head as he looks him over. “It’s time for your maintenance,” he says, his eyes dead as he nods over towards the chair. “You’re starting to malfunction.”_

_The Asset shakes his head frantically, pressing his hands into the glass behind him as he tries to work past the lump in his throat. “No,” he gets out, his voice thin. “No, please. I don’t want to.”_

_Pierce’s face twists into a scowl and he takes a menacing step forward, the shadows shifting on his face. “You will do as you’re told,” he says darkly, the light glinting off his eye. “Now.”_

_The Asset shakes his head again, trying to edge away without taking his eyes off his former handler, the presence of his chair a few feet away nagging unpleasantly at his brain. Pierce tilts his head at him for a second before suddenly sitting back and shrugging his shoulders, a cruel smile flashing across his face._

_“Alright then,” he hisses, the sound causing dread to pool in the Asset’s stomach as Pierce turns to look into the void of space behind him. The Asset follows his gaze into the darkness and the sounds of a struggle reaches his ears, somebody’s feet scuffling across the floor as they resist getting dragged forward._

_A thin wheezing sounds in his ears, and the Asset’s own breath stalls as, into the light, he sees his_ handler _being dragged forward, his arms caught between two masked guards. He’s struggling, but he isn’t big anymore._

_He’s small again – his head only coming up to the guard’s shoulders – and he’s fighting a loosing battle. His eyes are wide with fear and his chest heaves visibly as the guards jerk him towards the chair. The Asset finds himself lurching forward, almost without a thought, his arm outstretched, and his mouth open in a wordless cry as he realises what is about to happen._

_He hits another sheet of glass, a desperate cry ripping from his throat as he pounds on it, unable to do anything but watch as his handler gets dragged closer and closer to the chair. “Leave him alone!” He screams, his voice cracking as he presses his hands into the glass and the guards start trying to wrestle Handler-Steve into the clamps._

_“We need a super soldier,” Pierce breathes from behind him, the hair on the Asset’s neck standing on end at the acid in his voice. “It doesn’t have to be_ you _.”_

_The Asset whips around to face him, his heart pounding loud in his ears as he hears the first clamp engage. “Stop,” he begs, his chest tight and his mind frantic. “Leave him alone.”_

_Pierce smiles at him, his eyes flashing viciously. “You know what you need to do,” he says, spite creeping into his voice as he tilts his head behind him. The Asset looks up to find another chair appearing, the unforgiving metal of its clamps glinting harshly under a new white spotlight._

_Horror drops into his stomach as he realises what Pierce wants, but behind him, Steve lets out a muffled cry and the Asset finds himself taking a jerky step forward, his heart straining in his chest and his stomach swimming with dread as he stumbles towards the chair. Pierce watches him with poorly concealed glee, and the sounds from behind the glass fade as the Asset steps towards the chair._

_He tries to breathe in, and there’s suddenly something claustrophobic and suffocating over his face cutting off his air. His breath catches and his hand comes up to claw at his cheek, panic building up and straining in his chest. His mask, the one he’d used to wear, peels off from over his mouth and tumbles to the floor, collapsing into dust as he comes to stand in front of the chair, his chest heaving._

_“You need to be maintained, Asset,” Pierce spits, and the Asset takes in a shaky breath, nausea swirling in his stomach as he reluctantly turns around, the skin of his arm practically flinching and drawing back by itself as he eases into the metal chair. He doesn’t have a guard in his mouth, but he feels like he’s choking anyway, his pulse pounding as Pierce steps closer to the chair._

_The clamps engage all at once, and the Asset flinches, his breath catching raggedly as he’s held down and the chair reclines. Pierce leans closer to him, his face deathly pale in the harsh light, and the Asset closes his eyes, not even trying to slow his breaths as he waits for the machine to activate._

_“Well done,” he hears Pierce say, the words sending shivers down the Asset’s spine as he hears him move to reach for the controls, ready to fry everything he’d learned out of his brain once again. The Asset clenches his teeth and squeezes his closed eyes tighter, trying to remind himself of his handler trapped in the other room. His hands dig into the arms of the chair as the headpieces whirl around him and he breathes in sharply through his nose, his whole-body tensing as a shrill hum fills the air._

_The hum cuts off abruptly with a crash and a shrill shrieking of metal, and the Asset jerks his eyes open, his breath catching as the chair vibrates under him. His gaze darts up, and standing above him – his face furled in concentration as he pulls away the headpieces of the chair – is the gloriously_ furious _face of his handler._

_He’s big again, his eyes narrowed as he stands over the Asset and reaches down to tear away the clamps with his bare hands. The Asset watches dumbfounded as the metal bends to his will and his handler reaches towards him, pulling him dazedly from the chair._

_The world sways slightly as the Asset takes in a breath and stares at his handler, his mind still not quite caught up to the fact that he’s_ here _, and that the chair is destroyed._

_“Asset!” The word is barked from across the room and he flinches, turning from his handler to see Pierce standing back from the chair, an infuriated expression on his face. “Asset!” He snarls again, nearly foaming at the mouth in his rage. “Sit down!”_

_Something solid grips his arm, and the Asset looks down to see his handler holding on to his forearm, supporting him as he narrows his eyes in a determined glare at Pierce. The Asset stares at him for a moment, his heartbeat seeming to slow – along with his racing thoughts – as his handler steadies him._

_He breathes in again and looks back over at the seething Pierce, his jaw tightening as he raises his chin. “My name…” he says. “Is Bucky.”_

The Asset snaps awake, sucking in one giant breath before trying to quiet himself, staring blankly up at the ceiling as he tries to process the dream. He can still almost feel his handler’s grip on his arm, and he rubs at the spot, as he tries to come to terms with the rest of what had happened.

 _My name is Bucky_ , he’d said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Bucky continues to deal with the aftermath of being a person and having things like a past and a family (and that most of them are dead.) I really liked the scene where Steve showed Bucky his family, since he got to see himself like he was before Hydra – but of course, that is a little bit of a double-edged sword for him right now. 
> 
> The nightmare creeps me out, even though I wrote the thing, but I really like it. As you can tell, Bucky is still in the process of shedding ‘the Asset’, but he’s getting there.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Asset wrestles with names.

The names are important. He knows they are, he just hasn’t had much time to actually think about it while dealing with the waves of all his _other_ realisations lately. He’d thought about names before though, because he seems to have a lot of them.

His handler calls him Bucky or Buck, most of the time, and now at least he knows why. Apparently, he’d used to be called that by everyone he’d been close to, although he still isn’t sure how that name had come from James Buchanan Barnes.

James is another name he has, although nobody has called him by it yet, so it doesn’t exactly mean a lot to him right now.

As for Barnes… Stark calls him that one a lot of the time, and the other Avengers do too sometimes, although they don’t seem to mind using Bucky either. Barnes gives way to Sergeant Barnes, which… he supposes must have been his rank, when he had gone to war. The name is ruined now, but it is at least nice to know where it had come from.

He has other names too though, including Soldier and Asset. _He’s_ been calling himself the Asset because that had been the title given to him by Hydra when he had been transferred to America, and he hadn’t _had_ another name to use because he hadn’t been a _person_.

Except he _is_ a person. And he has a name.

And JARVIS had once asked him what he wanted to be called and he hadn’t known how to answer. He still doesn’t know, exactly. He isn’t _used_ to thinking of Bucky as his _name_. He’d been thinking of it as Handler-Steve’s title for him, since his handlers seem to shuffle through various titles like Sergeant, Soldier, and Asset. He’d thought Bucky was another name like the Asset, but that is completely false.

Bucky is nothing like the Asset.

He can remember, a long time ago, he’d gone through a similar dilemma, agonising over whether or not he’d be allowed to call Handler-Steve by his first name, rather than as Handler-Rogers. The instance seems almost laughable now. Not only is he certain now that Handler-Steve wouldn’t have gotten mad at him _at all_ , but he isn’t even his _handler._

And that offers another dilemma. What does he call Handler-Steve _now_?

The easy answer is just to call him Steve, and the easy answer to his own name dilemma is to just call himself Bucky… But there’s a whole host of implications that go along with that. No longer is he afraid that he will be punished for what name he chooses. No. He’d accidentally used his handler’s first name before, and nothing bad had happened, and he’d obviously used it _before_ he’d become the Asset…

And that’s just it, isn’t it? The symbol of the names Bucky and Steve. If he starts using them, it means he’s letting go of being the Asset, it means he’s going to somehow try to be this Bucky that he can barely remember. This Bucky that he hasn’t been in a long time.

He doesn’t know how to _be_ Bucky. He doesn’t know how to be without a handler. He doesn’t know what Handler-Steve _wants_. His handler had been his handler for so long — but apparently he’d been his friend for _longer,_ and he doesn’t know what his handler expects anymore.

Handler-Steve knows now, that he remembers his life and his family – maybe not by much – but _enough._ If he expects something to come from that… He… he wants to make his handler happy, and he doesn’t think that that’s just the programming talking. He had been friends with his handler before, and— and he doesn’t want to _lose_ whatever he has with his handler now… But he can’t help being afraid that he will somehow fail at being Bucky Barnes.

All the rules that he’d come to settle into in the Tower are suddenly up in the air again. He’d grown used to his handler’s gentle manner, and his training with the other Avengers, and the few expectations placed on him, but he doesn’t know what to expect now. His handler had said to take things slow, but he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to act anymore. He’d known what to do as the Asset, but he’s a person now, and people… don’t act like the Asset. 

He gets up for breakfast and he spends the entire time anxious that maybe his handler expects him to make his own food all the time now, because that’s what people do. He goes for a walk with Banner and he spends the whole time wondering if the man now wants him to choose where they walk, rather than following along passively _because that’s what people do_. He sits quietly with his handler after supper, unable to keep from worrying that his handler wants him to strike up a conversation like he would have Before, because that’s what he used to do.

(Of course, his handler makes him food like usual, and Banner doesn’t seem annoyed by being the one to lead, and his handler seems perfectly happy to sit in silence, the day goes by _normally_.) He just… doesn’t know the _rules_ anymore.

And… and, a deeper, growing part of himself is annoyed that he is even _looking_ for rules. There _aren’t_ rules anymore, because he is _not_ the Asset, and his handler _isn’t_ his handler, and— and even if there _are_ rules that he doesn’t know about, he shouldn’t be _afraid_ anymore, _because he isn’t the Asset_ , and he isn’t going to be punished. People can’t just hurt him anymore. He can do whatever he wants — if he could just work up the courage and _do it._

Of course, it doesn’t actually _feel_ like he can do whatever he wants. Even the thought of it makes him anxious, and he spends too long arguing with himself over it. He now knows that he hadn’t been the Asset for forever, and that the rules he had lived under with Hydra had been wrong… but just because he _knows_ he’s supposed to be able to do things like everybody else… doesn’t actually mean he feels safe _doing_ so, no matter how much he may want to.

His handler can tell something is wrong. He can feel him watching him after supper, and he feels a little bad about his tense mood, but he can’t seem to stop his brooding. Nearly every thought he has seems to be linked to his life as the Asset, and everything seems to circle back to how _little_ he knows about himself. He sits, scowling on the couch, battling with himself because _technically_ he doesn’t need to feel bad, he doesn’t have an obligation to be _anything_ for his handler, so he shouldn’t be worried about the acceptability of his actions.

He gives up on that after a while. Behind him, his handler seems to be dealing with his feelings by cleaning out the fridge, his face briefly twisting into a scowl at the cold, before he seemingly pushes past it, probably in an effort to have something productive to do.

The Asset finds that even that small choice digs at him. The _Asset_ doesn’t have anything productive to do, and while he _could_ go down to the gym, or leave the Tower or… or just _go_ anywhere… he still can’t. Because he _never_ goes places by himself, and his frustration at himself and his trained habits boils up until he shoves himself up from the couch and begins pacing the room in a half-hearted perimeter check.

Eventually his handler pauses his cleaning, his eyes tracking him warily. “Are you alright?” he asks finally, the worry on his face grating rather than comforting, like it usually is.

“I’m _fine,_ ” the Asset actually snaps back at him, trying not to glare, because it isn’t his _handler’s_ fault that he’s trapped between two mindsets and doesn’t know what to do. His handler looks a little shocked at his outburst and he instantly feels bad for his sharp temper, his shoulders hunching defensively before he retreats hastily to the bathroom with the excuse of taking a shower.

At least in the bathroom he can have a little privacy, away from his handler and the reminders that he isn’t Bucky right now because he doesn’t know _how,_ and that even his desire to be like Bucky is more Asset and Mission related than he would like.

(He spends the next ten minutes quietly hyperventilating by the far wall of the bathroom and cursing himself because today isn’t a Shower Day and he’s never taken the initiative on taking a shower by himself before— but at the same time, he _shouldn’t have to_ , and his mind can’t seem to _get_ that.)

The shower, once he convinces himself to actually start it, is at least relaxing, and he probably would have stayed in it all night… if he didn’t feel vaguely nauseated at the idea of taking longer than he’s _supposed_ to. He turns the water off bitterly, and sits stubbornly in the tub until his thoughts slow down a little and he feels ready to go outside again.

He sweeps the room for his handler as he exits the bathroom, the living room dim now that night has fallen, and he comes up short when he realises that his handler’s door is closed – for only the second time since he’d arrived at the Tower. He stares at it for a while, a part of him relieved for the relative privacy that the gesture offers, and a part of him quietly stressing over the possibility that his handler is angry with him.

He shoves the thought away and reminds himself sharply that even if his handler _is_ angry with him, he still won’t punish him because— _because._

oOo

The second day after finding the book, and he still hasn’t tried to read more of it. It sits on top of his drawer, staring at him, waiting for him to open it. He doesn’t.

A part of him wants to. A part of him is almost desperate for it, the continuous need to know as much about himself and what he’d lost cycling over and over in his brain. The thought of opening it also seems to paralyse him though. He knows he still can’t fully understand the magnitude of what has happened to him — he’s still trying to process the fact that he is a _person_ and has _always been one_ — it’s hard to think about the thing Hydra had turned him into, and he isn’t sure he’s ready to dig up the pieces of who he’d used to be, just to mourn them.

But he can’t stay in limbo forever. The strain is too much. He needs to figure out what he’s doing and what he _wants_ to do, before it tears his mind apart. (A part of him feels like laughing dryly at his difficulty because he can still remember the time when a dilemma of this proportion would have shut him down and sent him spiralling back into his programming. Now he can’t even fall back on his programming because he _doesn’t want to_. It isn’t helpful anymore.)

He doesn’t know how long he would have stayed stuck in the middle, unable to dig himself out of the hole that Hydra had shoved him into, if Romanoff hadn’t showed up at his door, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

“Let’s go spar,” she says, her stance solid as she stares him down.

Today isn’t a normal sparring day, and he wars with himself as he looks her over, a hissing angry part of himself wanting to refuse, just to prove that he _can_ , just to see what she would do. Another part of him feels ashamed because he’s pretty sure Romanoff would actually listen to him if he said no, and he actually has nothing _else_ to do, and no reason to refuse.

He finally nods jerkily at her, stepping out stiffly and turning to follow her down to the elevator, standing silently as they wait for JARVIS to take them down, and trying to calm himself a little. He’s not actually _mad at_ anyone, he’s just… angry. And angry that he’s angry (and a very small part of him that is still fully trained keeps rising up and reprimanding him for being angry at his handlers and that just makes everything _worse._ )

JARVIS lets them off the elevator and they head into the gym, cycling through a few stretches before going to the mat and getting into sparring stances. The Asset does his best to stay focused only on the match, without letting his thoughts distract him, but he seems to be doing a poor job of it.

Romanoff seems particularly tricky today, and he finds his back hitting the mat over and over, his irritation rising as he can’t seem to even _fight_ properly, the very thing Hydra had _trained_ him for. He growls as Romanoff knocks him down again, and he shoves himself up, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

He is not, at least, in a blind rage. He does not launch himself at Romanoff, swinging his fists wildly on the off chance that it will help, instead he raises his fists again and looks her over, breathing heavily as they circle each other, each with their own calculating look in their eyes.

“So, you seem tense,” Romanoff says, breaking the silence between them without throwing a single punch.

The Asset narrows his eyes but doesn’t engage her either, since that generally doesn’t end well. He grits his teeth and continues circling, trying to decide what he wants to say to Romanoff. Out of everyone in the Tower, she probably understands best what he’s going through… but part of him doesn’t want to bring it up, the idea of speaking about the storm in his mind frightening, like it would make everything too real.

“Steve’s not saying anything again,” Romanoff tells him, darting forward to throw three quick jabs, all of which he blocks, before she backs off again. “Is it your missions again?” She looks him over, something in her eye making it seem as though she already knowns her guess is wrong.

He flexes his jaw and shakes his head, finding himself looking at Romanoff’s fists instead of her face. It is probably the perfect time for her to strike, but she doesn’t, instead continuing to circle him in silence as he tries to figure out what he wants to say.

“I… don’t know what to do. Now,” he admits finally, his voice quiet, the anger in his chest simmering into something closer to dejection. He flickers his gaze up to Romanoff for a second before dropping his eyes again. Romanoff stays silent, mirroring his movements as they circle the mat, her eyes never leaving his face.

He sucks in a breath and rolls his shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension running through his body. He clenches his teeth. “I…” His eyes jump up again. “I… used to be Bucky,” he says, his voice hushed, his chest tightening slightly at his admission. “But I didn’t remember, but now I _almost_ do, but I don’t know how to _not_ be the Asset— but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

He grits his teeth, frustration bubbling up in his chest again while Romanoff watches him silently. “What do you mean?” she asks, the look in her eyes telling him the question is more for his benefit than hers.

He lets out a sharp breath and clenches his fists, never stopping his circling, even though they aren’t really sparring anymore. “The Asset is supposed to follow missions,” he explains tightly, his eyes on Romanoff. “Bucky is not.” He presses his lips together. “Handler-Steve… I don’t know what he wants anymore.” The words seem to hollow out his chest as he speaks, and he breathes in roughly. “Bucky’s not supposed to have missions anymore, but I want—”

 _I want Handler-Steve to be happy_ , he thinks frustratedly. _And I can’t do that if I don’t know what he wants._ “But I don’t know how to be Bucky,” he finishes finally, looking up at Romanoff to see if she can make sense of the mess he’d just given her.

In front of him, Romanoff presses her lips together for a moment, before dropping her arms and stepping out of her stance, her eyes searching as she looks over him. He drops out of his stance too, standing still as he looks at her, waiting for her verdict. Finally, Romanoff lets out a quiet sigh and crosses her arms. “You two need to talk to each other,” she says, and the Asset blinks at her in surprise.

The corner of Romanoff’s mouth quirks up slightly and she shifts the weight on her hips. “ _You’re_ busy tearing yourself up because you don’t think you’re Bucky, but you think that’s what Steve wants, right?” she says, her voice making it plain that she knows the answer to that question. The Asset nods anyways, a little stunned, and Romanoff nods back at him, her eyes softening. “I don’t think you need to worry about that,” she says softly. 

He stares at her a little incredulously and she huffs out a breath at him. “Look,” she says gently. “You’re already a lot more Bucky than you are the Asset.” She looks amused by his doubtful expression but continues before he can say anything. “And…” She gives him a serious look. “Steve’s already proven that he doesn’t care if you’re Bucky or the Asset. I think, if you had never remembered anything, he would have kept on being your handler for as long as you needed him to…” She offers him a small smile. “So you don’t have to worry about him leaving you out in the cold now that things are changing.”

She lets him sit in silence for a moment, before rolling her shoulders and dropping her arms. “You just need to figure out what _you_ want,” she says, tilting her head at him, a knowing smile on her face. “Don’t worry about Steve. And talk to him. Communication is a thing, you know.”

The Asset huffs at her, mostly because he’s pretty sure she’s right, before dropping back down into a sparring stance. Romanoff copies him, and they fall back into a smooth and comforting routine of blocks and punches, their bouts calmer now that the Asset has something else to think over.

oOo

He gets back to his handler’s room, sore, but feeling more collected than he had been before. Romanoff’s instruction to _talk_ with his handler echoes in his mind as he steps inside, and noise from the kitchen lets him know that his handler is home and busy inside. He takes in a breath and squares his shoulders, letting the typical unease at confronting his handler roll through him. He knows by now, that Handler-Steve won’t react badly, because he isn’t exactly his handler, but the learned behaviour is still a little hard to shake. It probably doesn’t help that this conversation is difficult just in _general_.

Still, Romanoff is right, if he wants to get some peace in this, he’s going to have to do something about his dilemma, and it’s undeniable that his handler has a role in all of this, so he’s going to have to talk to him.

He lets out a breath and begins to make his way down the hall towards the kitchen, the sounds of his handler guiding him until he comes into view. He’s cleaning out the freezer today, and the Asset stands still to watch him for a moment. He’s wearing his blue slippers to help protect his feet from the cold, but there’s still a tightness to his mouth as he checks various items for their expiry dates that lets the Asset know that he’s _enduring_ the cold more than anything else.

His head darts up as the Asset takes another step forward to settle in one of the chairs nestled by the counter, and his handler’s eyes flick over him, obviously aware that something is coming, since this is the first time the Asset has approached him since they had used the BARF tech together.

“Romanoff told me to talk to you,” the Asset says by way of an opening, and his handler’s mouth quirks up in amusement in response.

He huffs out an amiable breath. “Okay,” he says, picking up a bag of frozen fruit and a few other miscellaneous items from the counter to put back in the freezer, before closing it and turning back to him, his full attention ready – even if he looks a little apprehensive for what their conversation might bring.

The Asset shifts a little uneasily on his chair, and part of him wishes that his handler had continued with his work, so he wouldn’t have to look at him for the whole discussion. It can’t be helped though, and he looks down at the counter, trying to figure out how to bring up his dilemma. He flicks his eyes up to his handler and back down again before gritting his teeth. He’s just going to have to go for it.

He breathes in, his left hand tightening into a fist from where it rests on top of the counter. “I…” He looks up at his handler. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” he admits quickly, before pressing his lips together and looking away. His hand tightens on the counter. “I remember Bucky,” he says, without turning his head. “I understand who he was but– but I don’t know how to be him anymore. And I don’t know what you want.”

When he looks over at his handler, he is leaning against the counter behind him, his face carefully neutral is he listens, although his knuckles are white as they grip the counter next to him. He flicks his eyes over him for a moment, as if waiting to see if he has anything else to say, before dropping his gaze. “I… don’t exactly have all the answers,” he says quietly.

The Asset swallows and his handler looks up at him, letting out a sigh. “Look Buck–” He cuts himself off with a shrug. “This is something I’ve been wondering about for a while,” he admits. “With how you’ve changed since coming to the Tower, I figured we’d probably come to a point like this… but I didn’t want to rush it, I didn’t want to push you into anything that you weren’t ready for.”

The Asset relaxes slightly at the reassurance that his handler doesn’t seem intent on jumping blindly into whatever stage of development they have come to. “I didn’t want to hold you back _either_ ,” Handler-Steve continues, rubbing the back of his neck. “So I was just doing my best to go by what you seemed to need at the time.” He catches his eye. “I know this is hard, Buck,” he says quietly. “But we don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do.”

The Asset almost laughs at that, because a few months ago he would have been convinced that he didn’t _have_ wants. But now… he finds that part of what he wants is clouded by his concern over what his _handler_ wants… and he doesn’t think that concern has anything to do with his programming.

“I don’t _know_ what I want,” he says, shifting to tap his metal fingers against the counter. “I don’t—” He clenches his teeth and breathes in, his eyes meeting his handler’s. “I don’t know what to do,” he says, something almost forlorn in his voice. “I used to be Bucky, but I don’t know how to _be_ that anymore.” He shakes his head, looking down. “The man in the holograms, he— I don’t know how to be a normal _person_ , let alone be him for you.”

“Be him for— Bucky.” His handler gives an aborted lurch forward, before settling back onto the counter behind him. “Buck,” he says, his gaze intense. “Listen, this is important.” The Asset brings his gaze up and his handler’s lips press together in determination. “Listen,” he says again. “No one expects you to somehow become the man you used to be.”

The Asset blinks at him and his handler shakes his head, continuing. “That would be impossible,” he says. “No one can expect you to go through what you did and come out exactly the same.” He lets out a quiet breath, something flickering in his eye. “Neither of us are the same people we were before, it wouldn’t be fair to try to be.”

The Asset breathes in, because he finds he hadn’t been doing that very well, and keeps his gaze pinned on his handler, sucking in every word he says. “It isn’t important what I want,” he is saying, waving his hand. “I’m just glad you’re _alive_ Buck. I thought everyone I knew was dead when I woke up and— I just want you to be happy now.” He swallows and braces himself against the counter. “And that might take a while to figure out,” he says, his eyes dropping down slightly. He shrugs before bringing his eyes up to his again. You don’t— There isn’t some sort of goal here, Buck,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to try to be anything that you aren’t, okay?”

The Asset finds his mouth slightly open, a little stunned as his handler’s words basically reflect what Romanoff had been saying. “What if…” He swallows, ducking his head slightly. “I’m not very good… at being a person,” he mumbles. “I still… it’s still hard for me.”

His handler huffs out a quiet breath, almost like a laugh. “Of course it is, Buck,” he says, relaxing his grip on the counter. “You’re working through 70 years of conditioning; you can’t beat yourself up too badly for having difficulty.” His eyes flick over him. “You don’t have to make all your decisions now,” he says. “It’s a long road we’re on and—” He shrugs his shoulders, looking down. “I want you to know that I’m with you on this.” He looks up, his eyes bright and determined. “Till the end of the line, Buck.”

The Asset finds the air stall in his lungs as his handler says the loaded phrase. “Things are gonna change,” he continues quietly. “But that isn’t bad. And they don’t have to change faster than you want them to.” He rolls his shoulders, sighing. “I want to help you, but… I don’t want you to have to feel like you have to be a ghost for me, Bucky. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You don’t even have to stay _here_ , if you don’t want to.”

The Asset sucks in a breath through his nose and blinks at his handler. “What do you mean?” he asks, feeling a little stunned.

In front of him, his handler’s mouth quirks up slightly, although he’s looking a bit more apprehensive than before. “Well…” He breathes in. “Tony told me once, that he could get you your own room, if you wanted,” he says. “And that offer is still open, I’m sure.” His eyes flicker away to look around the room before coming back to him. “Also…” he starts slowly. “If you want to move out of the Tower completely… you can do that to.”

The Asset stares, completely blindsided by the offer. He too can remember a time when Stark had offered him a room of his own, but never once had he considered moving out _completely_. “It’s a big step,” Handler-Steve continues, seemingly rushing to get the words out now. “And you don’t have to, if you don’t want to, but I can’t really imagine what it’s like, to live with—” He breathes in. “With your handler, while trying to figure out who you are, so…” He swallows. “If that’s something you wanted then…”

It’s obvious to the Asset, that the idea isn’t something his handler wants, not exactly. But… but he’s offering it anyways, because… because… The Asset blinks and he almost smiles as the last dredges of the raging storm in his mind finally begin to die away. He breathes in and looks up at— —

He… isn’t his handler. Not really. He hadn’t ever really _been_ his handler, in anything but name, and he’d hated every moment of it. He hadn’t _wanted_ to be his handler, but he’d continued with it, even after they had broken off with Hydra, because that’s what the Asset had _needed_ at the time.

Now that he’s caught a glimpse and understood what they’d used to be together, the Asset can’t imagine how difficult that must have been for him. But he’d done it, and like Romanoff had said, he would have done it for as long as it was needed because… because he _isn’t_ his handler, he’s his friend. And he’s Steve.

The name doesn’t seem so dangerous now, after everything. He’d been thinking of their names as some sort of doorway or bridge to a past life, and he’d thought somehow, that Hydra had burnt all those ties long ago, and that he would somehow disappoint his handl– Steve, if he’d tried to rebuild those ties.

But Handl– _Steve_ had been calling him Bucky almost since the day they had taken Hydra down. His hand– Steve hadn’t been holding the name over him, like some kind of prize to be gained after reaching some undefined level of Buckyness. He’d just… given it to him, because he didn’t see him as the Asset or Bucky, no matter how much like one or the other he was. And Han– Steve obviously didn’t hold some naïve hope that he would somehow magically transform back into the man he’d used to be. He wanted him like how he is _now,_ because— _I’m just glad you’re alive_ he’d said.

“Oh,” he breathes, his mind alight as he looks up at— at Steve. “I understand.” His hand– _Steve_ , looks up at him, slightly confused, and he quickly tries to pull up what they had been talking about. “I don’t want to move out,” he reassures, easing some of the lines on his ha– Steve’s face. “Maybe my own room, later but—” He leans forward. “I just— have some questions now.”

“Oh,” Han– Steve’s shoulders relax slightly. “Okay, sure.”

He breathes in. “What—” He swallows. “Where did Bucky _come from_?” he asks. He’s certain the book might tell him, but he wants to know _right now_ , if he’s going to claim the name. “The book says my name is James Buchanan Barnes,” he says. “But everyone calls me Bucky. _Why_?”

His h– Steve lets out a surprised breath of air and a smile breaks over his face as he shakes his head and starts off on a story of five year old James, in a kindergarten class, with two other Jameses, one of them already ‘James B’. “Your middle name and last name both start with B,” he says, his eyes bright and animated. “So that wouldn’t work. And Buchanan is hard to say and spell for five-year olds, so it very quickly got shortened to Buck and Bucky.”

Across from him, Bucky sits back, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Bucky has finally claimed his name! I liked this chapter because it starts to delve into the complicated nature of become a person again. Bucky’s having to think of himself in a completely new way, and he isn’t sure what is expected of him anymore. And a part of him is frustrated that he’s having difficulty, even though that is completely understandable.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky realises there is something very important that he doesn't know about Steve.

Things change a little bit. He stays in his ha– in Steve’s rooms for now. He knows that eventually he will have to move out and work on that part of living, but for the moment he’s just trying to get used to literally everything else. He _does_ decide to be more involved though, and it’s decided that he is in charge of every other meal.

“If there’s ever a day where you’re not feeling up to it, let me know,” Steve tells him as they work out the schedule, a look of intense sincerity on his face. “We all have our good days and bad days, so, don’t worry about it.”

With that guarantee, He finds he enjoys being able to cook for Steve – once he gets over his initial nervousness – and it helps him feel like he and Steve are in a more equal relationship than before. His h– Steve had told him that they had used to share an apartment together, and he finds that their current arrangement is beginning to feel more and more similar to how he would imagine that going.

He still… has to come to terms with everything _else_ his recent revelation had implied, and he finds himself mourning his Hydra missions all over again. Before, he had been upset for multiple reasons, but he’d still been thinking of himself as a tool. A tool that had been stolen and misused, but still something that had been designed for what Hydra had been doing.

But that isn’t the case at all. He had _never_ wanted to do anything that Hydra had made him do. He understands deeply now the few memories he has, of fighting against Hydra. Even the one where Pierce had tricked him into coming back to them. In the memory he’d been lost and struggling against a myriad of confusing and contradicting memories… but almost the instant he had had any free will at _all_ , he had tried to leave Hydra.

Of course, that had probably been moderately soon after Hydra had first captured him. Obviously, Hydra had been able to carve away that part of him over the decades.

But… even as he thinks that, he can’t help the thought that even after everything that Hydra had done to him, even after the years and _years_ of torture and brainwashing… he’d still left them in the end. He’d still chosen Steve over Hydra. And he may have thought that Steve had been his handler at the time, but he had still _known_ that Steve had been acting against Hydra’s best interests. And he had chosen Steve, even though the thought had terrified him to his core.

It’s that thought that comforts him a little and allows him to keep functioning as he works through what had been done to him. He still doesn’t remember everything about who he had used to be (and honestly, he’s not sure how he’d be able to know if he _did_ ), but he _does_ work up the courage to finally open up the book that had started this all.

His progress through it is slow, because he finds that as he reads, little bits and pieces of his life come back to him, and he makes a habit of reading with his journal by his side, writing down whatever comes to him, no matter how small the snippet might be. 

He’s in the middle of doing that, the book busy telling him about how he’d apparently been on the rugby team in school, when the door to Steve’s room swings open, and he looks up to see him step out, his leather jacket on.

Steve’s eyes catch his, and his mouth quirks up into a smile. “I’m just on my way to an appointment,” he says, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’ll be back in about an hour and a half.”

Bucky nods back at him, because the ritual of Steve leaving for his doctor’s appointments is familiar enough, but he can’t help the worry he feels as he watches his friend head out of their room. He’d wondered about Steve’s reoccurring doctor’s appointments before, but as the Asset he’d felt it wasn’t his business to know about it. Now though…

He sets his pen down next to his journal and looks up at the ceiling. “JARVIS?” he inquires, reminding his nerves sternly that he has no reason to worry about asking a question. “Can you tell me where Steve is going? And why?” He presses his lips together as his stomach gives a little thrill at calling Steve by his name out loud, and he breathes in steadily as he waits for JARVIS to reply.

The AI seems to stay silent for a moment longer than usual, before finally responding. “I apologize Sergeant,” he says. “I am afraid I am unable to reveal any personal aspect of someone’s life without their permission. I cannot discuss Captain Rogers with you at the moment.”

Bucky’s brow furls at that, because this is the first time JARVIS has ever refused to answer one of his questions, and he feels the tendril of worry in his stomach grow in response. His lips thin as he thinks over what he’d been told. Something is happening with Steve, and it’s something to do with doctors.

His mind jumps back to a flashback he’d seen of Steve once, small and sick and practically on his death bed. His hands tighten on the book in his lap, and his lips thin to the point of disappearing. Something is happening with Steve. And he needs to figure it out.

oOo

Once he starts thinking about it, he can't believe it had taken him this long to start getting suspicious about Steve’s past and present health. Over the next few days, he keeps his eye on Steve, trying to determine if there’s something wrong with him, and while there doesn’t _seem_ to be anything the matter, the time gives him the chance to start remembering the stranger things about Steve that he’d picked up on.

For one thing, the fact that Steve is even _here_ is a little bit of a mystery. So far, is seems that everyone else in his life, besides Hannah, has lived and died. He’d already come to terms with that, mostly. He’d been with Hydra for almost seventy years. It stands to reason that everyone he’d known would be dead or dying, having lived their life to old age.

Steve… isn’t though. He looks the same as how he can remember him from before he fell, and that doesn’t make sense.

Also, the way Steve talks about his past is a little strange now that he comes to think about it. Steve had never mentioned what he’d done, or what had happened to him while he had been busy being the Asset. Instead he keeps mentioning about how he’d ‘woken up’ here. He’d also mentioned how he’d been given files, to learn about the modern era, and Stark had talked about how Steve had come to the Tower with a box and a bag only.

Bucky shifts in his spot on the couch and draws his brows together. Something had happened to Steve. That much is obvious. And whatever it is, it seems to still be affecting him, given how regularly he goes to the doctor. The fact makes him anxious, because JARVIS won’t tell him about whatever it is, and he keeps thinking back to how sick Steve used to get.

The serum is supposed to keep him safe, and theoretically, the Avengers would be more concerned if something were seriously wrong with Steve… but he still can’t seem to get his mind off the topic.

What frustrates him the most, is that he can’t remember enough of Hydra’s files on Steve to know if he secretly already knows what had happened to his friend. He’s sure Hydra had debriefed him on Steve, along with the rest of the Avengers, but he doesn’t know what bits and pieces he can remember are actually from Hydra, and which are from his own past life. Either way, his memory isn’t being helpful right now, and he has no idea what is wrong with Steve. His flashbacks are generally uncontrolled, so who _knows_ when he’ll actually remember something _useful_ —

He blinks, and his mouth opens slightly as an idea dawns. _He_ might not be able to remember right now… but if he _does_ know something about whatever had happened to Steve… then that information is still in his brain. All he needs to do is get at it. And he has the perfect tool for that.

oOo

He feels a little awkward approaching Stark, although the man seems at least neutral, if not positive, about his presence in the Tower. Still, while he may trust Stark to treat him fairly, he doesn’t want to crowd him, and he doesn’t exactly know how to act around him.

For one thing, the name thing comes up all over again with him. He’s been working on getting used to thinking of the Avengers by their first names, since they aren’t actually agents working over him, but with Stark… he can’t help noticing how the man has yet to actually use _his_ first name. So… until that happens it’s probably a good idea to stay on a last name basis.

Even with that decided, he’s a little cautious as he asks JARVIS to take him down to Stark’s labs. Steve is, at least, busy training with Wil– Sam, currently, so his trip is relatively private, but he isn’t sure how Stark will react to his venture, or his request.

JARVIS lets him down though, so that is probably a good sign, and Bucky reminds himself to breathe evenly as the elevator doors ding open and reveal the entrance to Stark’s lab.

He enters quietly, part of him determined not to be noticed, despite the fact that he had _asked_ to come down here in the first place. It’s all for naught anyways, because almost as soon as he steps into the labs, he is met by an excited screeching of wheels and high pitched beeping as both DUM-E and U whirl around to race at him.

He finds his face breaking out into a smile as the bots roll up to him, their claw arms waving animatedly as he takes the time to thoroughly pat both of them down, DUM-E in particular trilling in approval.

“Well. Looks like you have a fan club.”

He darts his head up, having momentarily forgotten his purpose in coming here, and he catches sight of Stark sitting a few tables away, a pair of safety glasses pushed up on his forehead and a few grease smears on his arms. Beside him, U beeps, upset that his hand had frozen, and he resumes his petting, hoping that Stark doesn’t mind.

The engineer doesn’t seem overly bothered, seeming to watch the scene with some amusement, and the relaxed line of his shoulders gives Bucky a bit more confidence in what he is about to request. “I…” He swallows. “I was wondering if you could do something for me,” he says, his eyes on his hands instead of Stark as he continues to dole out affection to the two robots around him.

“What would that be?” Stark asks, and when he looks up, Stark’s face is mostly neutral, although a little curious at his request. He breathes in, trying to gather his thoughts.

“I need to remember something,” he blurts, his eyes on Stark. “I don’t— I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s _important_. I know it is. So I— I was wondering if you could help me use the BARF tech again.”

Across from him, Stark looks a little surprised by his request – and part of him wonders if it’s more to do with the fact that he’s _making_ the request, rather than its actual content – but he doesn’t look upset by it. Instead he actually looks a little thoughtful.

He runs a hand through his hair, knocking his glasses off in the process and pouting a little as they clatter to the floor. He shakes his head and brushes it off, looking up at him. “I don’t really mind I guess…” he says slowly. “But, you know, Steve knows how to use the tech now too. He could help you.”

Bucky bites his lip and looks down, continuing to pat DUM-E as he tries to come up with a good way of explaining himself to Stark. He knows he could simply ask Steve to help him but– “I need to remember something about Steve,” he says quietly, glancing back up at Stark. “It’s— something important, I think. But I want to figure it out first.”

Stark nods slowly in understanding, and Bucky relaxes slightly at that. “Alright then.” Stark rubs a hand over his face and pushes himself away from his table, looking up at him. “You good with going now?”

Bucky nods, and he soon finds himself standing in the elevator with Stark, waiting as JARVIS brings them up to the floor with the BARF room. It’s still a little awkward, standing with Stark, but he tries not to let it bother him, waiting for the man to lead the way once the elevator stops to let them out.

“Ok _ay_ ,” Stark says as he heads over to the computer terminals and hands over the BARF glasses. “Let’s get this baby warmed up and ready to go.” He fiddles around with the console for a moment and Bucky gets himself situated in the middle of the room, the glasses on his face. “Okay, we’re ready,” Stark says, looking up and giving him a thumbs up, before his expression shifts into something slightly awkward. “Did you want me to stay or…”

Bucky swallows. He hadn’t actually thought about that. He’s used to Stark staying for the BARF sessions though, and he’s not exactly sure if he’s ready to face whatever he’s going to pull up alone. “Maybe… maybe it would be good if someone stays,” he admits, his eyes dropping in embarrassment.

In front of him Stark nods briskly and settles down into the chair by the console. “Sure, okay,” he says lightly, although Bucky isn’t sure how much of that easiness is genuine and how much is put on for his benefit. “Go ahead, I guess,” Stark finishes, waving his hand, and Bucky breathes in, trying to center himself.

He doesn’t exactly know what he’s looking for, but the BARF tech has picked up on his subconscious thoughts before, so he’s hoping it will come through now. He closes his eyes. _What happened to Steve?_ he thinks pointedly, hoping to give the tech some direction. _I’ve got to know something. Hydra must have told me something._

The faint sound of clinking metal makes him open his eyes, and instead of his chair, and perhaps a debriefing file, like he’d sort of been expecting, he’s confronted with a mass of blackness. He can still vaguely see Stark on the other side of the room, but the entire projection field of the BARF tech is filled with an opaque, inky blackness. He stares at the square of darkness, and it isn’t until he hears the clinking noise again, and the quiet breaths of a person, that he realises that his holo-self must be _in_ there, sitting in complete darkness.

A shiver runs through him, before the hologram suddenly brightens, a light overhead being switched on. He twitches in surprise, and squints, the newfound light revealing the stone walls of his correctional cell in Siberia, and his holo-self, hunched near the misty edges of one of the walls. He too flinches at the onslaught of light, bringing up his arms— arm. He only has one, his right arm lifting to shield his eyes, and his left one ending in a bandaged stump just past his shoulder.

He stares, his left arm feeling suddenly heavier as his holo-self shifts, a chain around his ankle clattering as he angles himself so that his left side is behind him, his head lifting to look to where Bucky realises must be a door.

He’s right, because a second later, a heavy metal door materialises, its hinges letting out a small whine as it’s pushed open by a blond-haired man. His mouth opens slightly as he watches the man lean against the doorway, the cocky expression on his face irritatingly familiar.

“I think… I killed him,” he says, slightly stunned. Across the room, Stark looks up at him in surprise, and Bucky swallows. “Trying to escape,” he clarifies, watching as his holo-self glares at the blond man with undisguised dislike.

Now that he looks more closely, he can tell that already his holo-self’s time with Hydra hasn’t been treating him kindly. While he still looks to be completely himself, his hair is greasy, and his chin covered in scruff. Heavy bags sit under his eyes, and his top half is completely bare – besides the bandages on his arm – revealing recently lost weight, and an unhealthy grey tinge to his skin.

The blond man, on the other hand, seems to be in perfect health, and he smirks as holo-Bucky shifts uneasily in front of him. “ _Have you changed your mind yet?”_ he asks tauntingly, his accent unmistakable. “ _Our ranks are still open for another addition.”_

Across from him, holo-Bucky scowls, his teeth clenching before he pulls back and shrugs his right shoulder, his face shifting into an expression of mock-casualness. _“Well_ ,” he drawls. _“Your accommodations are_ swell _._ ” He gives the blond man a look. _“But I gotta say… I’m still not convinced.”_

The blond man sneers at him, before his mouth slips into something close to a smile. _“I thought you might say that_ ,” he says, his eyes glinting. _“So I got you something.”_ He pushes away from the doorjamb and brings up his arm to reveal a folded bundle of paper in his hand.

Holo-Bucky tenses at his movement, and eyes him warily as the man tosses the paper into the middle of the room, the bundle flipping open to reveal the front-page cover of a newspaper.

“ _A present,”_ the blond man says, as holo-Bucky makes no move towards the paper, his eyes glued suspiciously to the man in the doorway. “ _One of my agents got it for you, all the way from London.”_ His smile turns cruel. _“I heard they’re busy over there,_ ” he says, putting his hands in his pockets. “ _Planning Captain America’s funeral_.”

Bucky and holo-Bucky’s breath catch at the same time, and as one, their eyes dart to the newspaper. _“No,”_ holo-Bucky breathes, the horrified denial cutting right into Bucky’s core. He swallows painfully, and in front of him, his holo-self sucks in a steadying breath and darts his eyes up to the blond man, his voice hardening. _“No. You’re lying.”_

The man laughs and shakes his head. _“Read all about it, Sergeant,_ ” he says, waving dismissively towards the paper. _“Heard he went out with a bang. Sacrificed himself for the world. Real honourable.”_ Holo-Bucky stares at him, his gaze burning, and the blond man scoffs, his expression hardening. _“Your Captain’s_ dead _Sergeant,”_ he spits. _“No one’s coming for you.”_

With that, the blond man sneers one last time and steps out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him with a deafening thud. Inside, holo-Bucky’s eyes drop down to stare blankly at the newspaper in the middle of the floor, his breath shuddering slightly as he sits, seemingly in shock.

After a long moment, he blinks and sucks in a breath, his eyes betraying his reluctance as he painstakingly reaches with his right arm and pulls himself towards the paper, his chain rattling against the floor as he moves. He reaches for the paper and Bucky watches in frozen horror, his breath tight in his chest. This is not what he’d been expecting, this is not—

— _His breath catches, and he can hardly breathe, staring down at the bold ink in front of him. **SACRIFICE AND VICTORY** the paper announces. **CAPTAIN AMERICA PRESUMED DEAD; REDSKULL DEFEATED.** He stares, and then he stares some more, willing for the words to change. He hunches over the paper, his heart twisting in his chest as a buzzing fills his ears. _

No one’s coming for you. _The words echo in his head and he shudders out a ragged gasp, his fingers clenching at the paper. He’d known that. He hadn’t been expecting— He hadn’t told anyone about the serum, so of_ course _they all thought he was dead. He didn’t think Steve would come. He didn’t, but he'd hoped— He’d hoped that at least_ one _of them would make it through this war._

_He stares at the paper, and while he doesn’t exactly know what day it is in this place, the paper is older than he’d been expecting. That’s one of the things that makes him believe it’s real, and not some Hydra mind game. If it’s really from London, then it would have taken time to bring it here, wherever he is. And the other thing– the other thing that drives home the horrible cold truth, is the news of Redskull’s death. Hydra wouldn’t give him that, wouldn’t tell him of the death of their leader, if the rest of it wasn’t true as well—_

Bucky sucks in a breath and blinks, his eyes wet as he looks back at his holo-self, sitting frozen over the paper. He— he still doesn’t understand exactly how that paper could have been printed, since Steve is still here with him, but it solidifies his hunch that _something had happened to Steve_ , and the thought of Steve dying makes his chest feel heavy and hollow at the same time.

 _He'd hoped that at least_ one _of them could have made it through the war_.

In front of him, the scene shifts, the stone walls of his cell fading away. He’s not exactly sure if it’s because _he_ thought of it, or if his holo-self did in his moment of grief, but the scene changes to one from before he had been captured.

His holo-self sits on a stool inside a tent, hunched forwards slightly as he talks to Peggy, sitting across from him on her bed. _“If I die,”_ he says softly, looking up at her imploringly _. “I need you to promise to look after Steve.”_ Bucky’s mouth opens in shock, because he _remembers_ this, he remembers this scene.

 _“If I die, Steve’ll try to mourn all private-like,”_ his holo-self continues intently. _“Draw into himself and bottle it up until he finds himself another mission.”_ Bucky’s stomach plummets, and in front of him, his holo-self clenches his teeth. _“And when he does that, he won’t stop pushin’ himself until he drops,”_ he says. _“He’ll find himself a goal and then he’ll push himself to the end of the_ world _if he has to, in order to complete it.”_

The scene fades back to the Hydra cell as his holo-self lets out a strained sob, and Bucky gets it. He gets it as an old, remembered pain, breaks open in his chest and his eyes fill up with tears. Steve had done… Steve had done that. Steve had done _exactly_ that. He had died and Steve had—

He pulls off the glasses, his other hand coming to press against his eyes as he hunches forward and breathes in raggedly. He breathes for a few moments, but even as he struggles to come to terms with what he had just seen, a part of his mind is still aware of Stark sitting awkwardly by the computer consoles, a stricken look on his face. Part of him feels a little bad for making him watch that, but he’s also glad he’s here because– “Steve,” he grits out, wiping his face and looking up. “Can you– can you get Steve?”

Stark nods immediately, looking slightly pale as he calls for JARVIS to bring Steve to the BARF room. Bucky sucks in another breath and lets it out slowly, trying to remind himself that Steve _isn’t_ actually dead. He’s alive, and he’s _here_ , even though _something had happened to him_ , he’s still alive, and he’s still here.

He knows it can’t really be that long until Steve rushes into the room, but it feels like _ages_ , and his heart constricts at the sight of his barely contained worry. Steve stumbles to a stop a few feet inside the door, his eyes glancing between both him and Stark, obviously unsure what is going on and what he should do about it.

Bucky wipes his face and lurches towards him instinctively. “You stupid idiot,” he rasps out wetly, pulling Steve into a bewildered hug. Behind them, he’s aware of Stark quietly making his way out of the room, and Bucky clutches tighter at Steve, his friend’s arms coming up around him too after a moment of confusion.

“Bucky, what–?”

Bucky pulls back slightly and glares half-heartedly at him, the effect ruined slightly by the fact that his body is still trying to cry. “They told me you died,” he gets out, not letting up on his hold on Steve. “I thought you died. They told me–”

He swallows heavily and a devastated look passes over Steve’s face. “Oh,” he says, very quiet, his hands tightening on Bucky’s sleeves. “Oh, Buck. I’m so sorry.”

Bucky pulls back a little further, wiping his face with one hand, his other still gripping the BARF glasses and Steve’s shirt. He breathes in and sniffs, trying to steady himself. “What happened?” he asks roughly, staring at Steve. “Why did the paper say you died? What _happened?_ ”

Steve winces slightly and runs a hand over his face before looking at him, his lips pressing together. “I…” His eyes flick over him before glancing down briefly. “Maybe we should go back to our room for this,” he says, looking up.

The request isn’t promising, since it implies a long, unpleasant story, but Bucky nods determinedly, releasing Steve to step away and set down his glasses by the computer terminals. That finished, he turns back to Steve, sniffing again to try to clear his nose and running a hand through his hair, trying to calm himself down after everything.

Steve offers him a half-hearted smile before turning towards the door, and Bucky follows him out, his mind racing as he tries to guess what Steve could possibly tell him that would explain what he’d just seen. While he supposes Hydra could have actually been lying to him… something _had_ happened to Steve. And Steve hadn’t been surprised to learn Bucky had been told he’d been dead.

They make it back to their rooms, and Steve settles down on the couch, his shoulders slightly more hunched than usual as Bucky sits down on the other side. Silence sits between them for a moment before Steve takes in a deep breath and lets it out again, turning to look at him. “I don’t… exactly know how to start,” he admits, before running a hand through his hair and glancing away. “I haven’t actually had to _explain_ this to anyone before. Most people already know.”

Bucky blinks at him in surprise, before realising that if Steve’s death had been reported to the world, then most people would already know about it – and, he assumes, his miraculous recovery. Beside him, Steve sighs and rubs his hands on his pants, catching his eye.

“It started… after you died,” he says finally, pursing his lips slightly. Bucky swallows, drawing his hands into his lap and looking steadily at Steve. He doesn’t think this conversation is going to be easy for either of them. “Basically…” Steve sucks in a breath, steeling himself. “We were able to capture Zola,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “We’d been hunting down the dredges of Hydra, and Zola told us where Redskull’s last hideout was.”

Steve looks down and fiddles slightly with the fabric of his pants. “If we moved quickly, we thought we could take out Hydra for good,” he says quietly, and Bucky thinks he can see the beginnings of the mission that Steve had latched himself onto in the wake of his death. “We stormed the base,” Steve continues, looking towards the windows beyond the TV. “And it was going well… except Redskull had this bomber plane he’d built, and he tried to escape with it.”

Steve looks back at him finally, and his mouth quirks up. “I managed to get aboard,” he says, and Bucky has the distinct feeling that he’s leaving out a few dangerous details about _how_ exactly he’d managed to get aboard an accelerating plane. Steve looks down. “I ended up fighting with Redskull, and–” He looks up. “I don’t know if you remember, but Hydra was using the Tesseract to power a lot of their weapons, a sort of, blue cube thing.”

Bucky nods, because while he might not know much about a blue cube, he can vaguely remember Hydra’s blast weapons, which had _definitely_ been blue. Beside him, Steve tugs on one lip with his teeth, his hands moving to fiddle together in his lap.

“The cube was in the plane,” he says, looking somewhere into the middle distance. “It got bumped out of its containment unit during the fight and Redskull freaked out, picking it up.” Steve frowns and shrugs his shoulders. “After that he just kind of–” He waves a hand vaguely. “Well, it kind of looked like he got sucked into space. Knowing now what the Tesseract can do, I’m not surprised, but–” He shrugs ruefully and looks over. “At the time, I had no idea what had happened.”

Steve’s eyes flick away for a second, and he sucks in a deep breath. “The Tesseract didn’t go with him,” he says, going back to not looking at Bucky. “It fell down and sort of melted through the floor, into the ocean after he got zapped away, so…” His lips press together. “So I thought it was taken care of.”

His jaw clenches for a moment before he seems to slump slightly into the couch, turning to look at Bucky again. He can’t quite seem to meet his eyes though, and his hands twist together in his lap, prompting a spark of unease in Bucky’s stomach. “Redskull’s plane had bombs on board,” Steve tells him quietly, his face somber. “The ship was on autopilot, and it was heading for the States. For New York.”

Bucky’s eyes widen as a horrible mental picture reveals itself to him, and he stares at Steve, his breath suddenly tight in his chest. “I contacted our team,” Steve continues, in the same quiet voice as before, his hands still in his lap. “Peggy answered.” Steve swallows, his hands tightening and his shoulders stiffening. “There wasn’t… there wasn’t _time_ ,” he says, looking down. “The bombs were set to go off automatically, I didn’t know how to disarm them. The controls were a mess from the fight. If we waited too long, then the plane would make it to New York and—”

He breathes in. “I couldn’t risk all those people,” he says roughly. “I couldn’t risk the _Barneses_ , not after—” He flicks his eyes over him before clenching his teeth and continuing. “Even if there was a chance, I couldn’t risk it so—” His throat flexes as he swallows heavily. “So I— I was flying over the Arctic, and I thought, I thought it would be better if the plane crashed where it couldn’t hurt anyone.”

Steve flickers his eyes up to him, and Bucky sits frozen, his eyes wide as he looks at Steve. His heart pounds loud in his ears, and he can’t actually feel his hands anymore, his body mostly numb as he takes in what Steve is saying. “You crashed into the Arctic,” he says dazedly.

Steve nods, and looks away, his eyes focusing on something distant. “I got knocked out on impact,” he says, a dull tone creeping into his voice, as though he isn’t actually speaking about himself anymore. “When I woke up, the plane was filling with water, and I—” His gaze skitters for a moment, before he shrugs, staring off to the side. “I froze, down there. I thought I died but—”

He looks back at him, and Bucky feels his heart lurch, horror at what Steve is telling him welling up in his chest. He does not want to think about Steve, alone and freezing on a ship. His bones ache with cold at just the thought. It reminds him too much of his cryofreeze, and Steve should _never_ have to go through that. (He thinks back to Steve’s reluctance around the fridge, and suddenly things make a _lot_ more sense.)

“I didn’t. Die,” Steve continues tightly. “The serum kept me alive, and SHIELD found me in the ice last year.” He looks away, his knuckles white from where he’s clasps his hands together in his lap. “It was– a bit of a shock, getting used to everything.” He stares blankly ahead of himself for a moment, and Bucky chews on the inside of his lip before Steve breathes in sharply and relaxes against the couch, looking at him with a bit more life in his eyes. “It was hard,” he says quietly, his eyes on him. “But… but it was worth it.” His jaw clenches and he gives him a small smile. “I gotta find you after all, so… so in the end, I guess it was worth it.”

Emotion claws up in his throat. He’s not exactly sure what _kind_ of emotion yet, but it’s big, and he finds his eyes growing distinctly wet again. “Yeah, well–” His throat closes up, and he has to swallow to get it open again. “Don’t ever go do something so stupid again.” Steve blinks at him in surprise, and Bucky wipes determinedly at his eyes. “I mean it,” he gets out, his voice growing stronger as he gives Steve a look. “I’m going to be _pissed_ at you if you ever do something like that again.” He raises his chin, breathing in. “You know, I bet that’s why I didn’t die. So that I could haunt you from beyond the grave.”

Steve barks out a surprised laugh before pulling back slightly, an appraising look in his eye. “I’ll… be sure to keep that in mind,” he says as his eyes flicker over Bucky’s face, a gentle smile growing on his own.

Bucky huffs, and then sniffs, trying to clear his nose from all the emotions of the day. “Good,” he says decisively, folding his arms, and looking over Steve, noting the tired lines on his friend’s face. He had been right about the difficulty of the conversation. He breathes in and shakes out his hair slightly, catching Steve’s attention.

He thinks they both need something now to help settle themselves, and he has a guess at what might help. “Aren't you supposed to be making tea now?” he says, ignoring the tiny part of him that still tenses at the idea of telling Steve what to do.

For his part, Steve blinks at him for a second, a little stunned, before his grin turns sly. “Oh, is that what I’m supposed to be doing?” he drawls, making a show of pushing himself off of the couch.

Bucky scoffs and watches as he heads towards the kitchen, his shoulders slowly relaxing. “’Course,” he says. “That’s what we always do, isn’t it? Drink liquids and talk about feelings?”

Steve laughs from the kitchen, and Bucky feels some of the tightness in his chest ease as he hears the sounds of the kettle being filled. He settles back to wait for Steve to come back, thinking over what he’d just been told. Today had been… a rollercoaster, honestly. And while he may not have learned exactly why Steve is constantly going to the doctor’s yet… he had learned a lot.

His eyes flick to the kitchen, and he swallows back a wave of sadness at the thought of what Steve had done and gone through. He understands why he’d done it, and he’s not exactly sure if any other option had really been available… He breathes in and sets his jaw. Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s _okay_ with what happened but…

 _It was worth it,_ Steve had said, and well… at least, something good could come out of it. Eventually. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side note while writing this chapter, it was actually difficult for me to get used to writing ‘Steve’ and ‘Bucky'. I also found that when Bucky gets nervous, I start wanting to write ‘the Asset’ again. I imagine Bucky probably would have a similar difficulty XD
> 
> Other than that, I thought that this chapter was pretty important. Bucky learns what happened to Steve and some of what he went through, which is an important part of rebuilding their relationship.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky learns something more about Steve.

Steve’s story is a lot to take in, and in the end, Bucky doesn’t end up asking him about his doctor’s appointments that night. He’s fairly certain that the two must be related somehow, but by the time he lays out his bedding on the couch, he is emotionally drained, and ready to sleep. He’s half expecting nightmares that night, thanks to his work with BARF and then his emotional discussion with Steve, but he actually sleeps rather soundly.

…That is, until he gets woken up in the middle of the night.

At first, he’s not exactly sure what it is that wakes him, his eyes blinking awake and staring confusedly into the darkness, seemingly without reason. He sits in silence for a moment and stares into the dark, trying to figure out what had disturbed him. At first, he doesn’t hear anything, and he turns his head to check the time on the TV stand, but he freezes as his ears pick up on the faint, quiet sound of a ragged breath from the other room.

He is on instant high alert, and he sits up, turning his head to look over towards Steve’s bedroom. Ever since he had started to remember himself, Steve had made a habit of closing his door a little more, but there is still a sliver of open space that keeps the door from being fully closed, and Bucky stares at it as he strains his ears, waiting to hear the sound again.

A thin gasp reaches him, and he winces internally, his stomach clenching at the sound. A series of sudden coughs follows, and then a few more gasps for air, and he’s already standing and making his way to the room before he can even process them, let alone think through his actions.

He still feels some habitual nerves as he reaches up to push open Steve’s door, but he ignores them, his mind mostly focused on the absolutely dreadful breathing of his friend, and the even more terrifying silences that stretch between each breath.

The door opens silently, and he eases himself into the room, flicking his eyes around in a perimeter scan as he tries to keep his own breathing under control and figure out what is going on. The light is dim, but there is enough streetlight shining in through Steve’s window for him to see that his friend is still laid out on his bed, rather than on the floor like he had sometimes been before.

The blankets of the bed look tangled, like someone has been thrashing around in them, but Steve himself is strangely still, his body almost rigid as his chest moves erratically with his breaths. Bucky stares at him, suddenly uncertain as to what he’s supposed to do now. He’d come in, full of determination, but now that he’s faced with the scene in front of him, he’s at a loss.

On the bed, Steve jerks suddenly, his one hand coming up for a moment and waving as if trying to push something away, before it jerks back down and Steve breaks into a new bout of coughing. Bucky swallows uneasily and edges closer to the bed so that he can see Steve better as he gasps for air, his friend’s eyes squeezed shut as his head twitches, his jaw clenching.

 _He’s dreaming_ , Bucky realises abruptly, the recognition cold in his stomach. Steve is having a nightmare.

In front of him, Steve’s teeth suddenly start to chatter, and he gasps with ragged desperation, holding his breath as he jerks his face to the side and shivers. Bucky, meanwhile, feels his stomach drop down into his toes as he realises what Steve is dreaming about.

He had thought – hadn’t he – that Steve’s period in the ice had been eerily similar to his own cryofreeze experience. But, there is one thing about cryofreeze that he hadn’t thought to be grateful about until now. Cryofreeze is at least fast. Looking down on Steve, he thinks that Steve’s experience had been anything but.

On the bed, Steve’s teeth continue to chatter as he fights for air, and Bucky stands in frozen indecision. He’s never had to deal with something like this before, and he can't remember ever having to deal with it in any of his flashbacks before either.

Steve’s nightmare is horrible to watch, and his instincts scream at him to try to wake him up. But he baulks a little at the thought. He’s never done this before, nor has he ever had it done _to_ him, so he’s not exactly sure how to go about it. But Steve is actually holding his breath between gasps, like he actually thinks he’s drowning, and Bucky isn’t about to let him keep doing that. 

He steps up next to Steve on the bed and hesitates for a moment before reaching out to place his hand on Steve’s knee, deciding that it’s a safer position than trying to shake his shoulders, should Steve wake up on the defensive. Steve doesn’t react to him grabbing his knee, so Bucky sucks in a breath and jostles his leg gently.

“Steve,” he says, starting off quietly. “Steve, wake up.” Steve flinches, but doesn’t open his eyes, his face remaining tensed as he shivers and sucks in another desperate lungful of air, his body jerking with tension as he shivers. Beside him, Bucky presses his lips together and shakes Steve’s leg a little harder this time. “Steve,” he tries again, raising his voice slightly. “You’re dreaming. _Wake up._ ”

Steve’s eyes snap open with a gasp, and he immediately starts coughing, curling to the side slightly, as though he is actually trying to expel water from his lungs. Bucky watches a little helplessly as Steve’s leg moves out from under his hand, and Steve gasps for air, still shivering as he coughs.

The sound of Steve’s laboured breathing makes Bucky’s stomach clench uncomfortably— because the breathing is _important_ — and he’s grateful when, after a few moments, his breathing starts to get a little more regulated, his friend no longer trying to cough up water that isn’t there.

He’s still shaking and breathing heavily though, even when he finally sits up to look at him, his hand running through his hair as if that will somehow help put him back together again. He flicks his eyes over him and breathes, sitting almost frozen on his bed— like a deer busy hoping that the hunter hasn’t actually seen him yet, and that maybe, he can just slowly sneak away.

“Are… you alright?” Bucky asks, finally breaking the silence between them and scanning his eyes over Steve, noting the lingering unevenness of his breaths and the way his hands clutch at the blankets under him.

In front of him, Steve swallows. “Yeah,” he says, the rough sound of his voice not doing much to support his claim. Bucky finds himself raising an eyebrow, and Steve shifts, his head moving as he looks down. For his part, Bucky grits his teeth and curses the dark room, because it’s making it difficult to read Steve’s face, and his friend doesn’t seem inclined to talk to him. Still, he can tell just by looking that Steve’s nightmare has shaken him, and he’s not about to leave him to deal with it alone.

Steve breathes in and looks up at him, his face determinedly stoic, but before he can say anything, Bucky makes his decision and reaches down, tugging at the blankets, straightening them and pulling them out to make space. “Move over,” he says, looking up at Steve as he holds the blankets.

Steve stares at him, stunned into silence for a moment, before he opens his mouth. “Bucky,” he starts. “You don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” Bucky says, cutting him off, his hands tightening on the blankets as he clenches his jaw, holding Steve’s gaze determinedly, his heart speeding up as it quietly freaks out at his stubbornness. “Let me take care of you for once.” The words come out a little harsher than he wants, but they seem to do the trick because Steve closes his mouth, and, after a second of staring at him, he shifts over so that he’s closer to the middle of the bed.

Bucky nods in approval, and lifts the blankets a little higher so that he can slip underneath too, shuffling so that he ends up shoulder to shoulder with Steve, their legs laying next to each other under the covers. For his part, Steve seems to be mostly in shock, letting Bucky take the lead as he sits, his breath still plagued with the occasional stutter and shiver.

Bucky’s lips press together at the sound and his chest squeezes with such an intense emotion that he doesn’t even think twice as he reaches up and puts his arm around Steve’s shoulder, pulling him down into a close hug.

Steve moves with him easily, as if he isn’t quite following what is happening, and he sits stiffly for a few seconds, his head pressed against Bucky’s chest, the sound of their breathing the only thing filling the room around them. Then, as though a switch flips inside him, Steve sort of… _melts_ , his face pressing into Bucky’s chest as if it is the only thing grounding him, and his hand coming up to clutch at his shirt.

Bucky swallows thickly and squeezes Steve’s shoulder, blinking rapidly as he stares in front of himself and tries to process the amount of feelings he seems to be having at the moment. He can’t remember if he and Steve have ever done this before… but he supposes it doesn’t matter, because they do it _now,_ and that is really all that matters.

Steve shudders next to him, and Bucky’s tongue presses into the roof of his mouth as he thinks over the nightmare he had witnessed. He supposes he shouldn’t have been surprised that Steve might dream about his ordeal after they had spent so long talking about it, but seeing Steve be so… rattled by it had been… jarring.

 _Let me take care of you for once_ , he’d said, and he’d meant it. He hadn’t really thought about it before, but ever since Steve had become his handler, Steve had been working constantly on making sure that _his_ needs were fulfilled as well as possible. Steve had been with him every step of the way as he’d worked on recovering from Hydra, and Steve had been to willing put aside everything to accommodate to him as much as possible and to help him in every way he could.

But who had been looking after Steve during all of it?

Bucky shifts to hold Steve better and thinks it over. Stark had obviously had his eye on Steve. They’d talked about how Steve had been… having difficulty when he’d first arrived at the tower (and now that Bucky knows that that had been soon after Steve had been unfrozen, he understands better). The other Avengers too, seemed to look out for their Captain as much as possible. Natasha had been paying enough attention to know when Steve was bothered by Bucky’s struggles, and Clint had once been visibly troubled by Steve’s obsessive work in the gym.

But even with his friends looking after him, Steve had still been bearing the brunt of Bucky’s recovery, and he imagines that it hadn’t always been easy.

Plus, there was the fact that something is still going on with Steve. He still goes to the doctor’s regularly and is obviously still affected by his time in the ice, and Bucky’s stomach clenches at the idea that something might be wrong with Steve, despite his serum.

He looks down so that he can see the top of Steve’s head and brings up his other arm so that he has Steve completely encircled, his entire body determined to make up for lost time and go back to protecting Steve as much as he is able. The patch of his shirt under Steve’s eyes grows slightly damp, and he pretends, for both their sakes, that he doesn’t notice.

They sit like that for a while, silent except for their breaths, warm and safe in their self-made cocoon. They sit until Steve starts to relax, settling and turning his face so that he’s resting easily against Bucky, his eyes bright. He breathes in and lets out a sigh, deep and cleansing, like he’s letting go of a mountain load of care, and Bucky finds himself relaxing at the sound.

He softens his grip on Steve, although he doesn’t pull away, and he leans his head back against the headboard behind them. Steve’s head moves subtly along with his chest as he breathes, and after a moment, Steve reaches for the edge of the blanket, pulling it up and fiddling with it a little, his own breathing even and slow as he ducks his head slightly.

“I missed you.”

The words are so quiet that despite being right next to Steve, Bucky might not have heard them without his serum enhanced hearing.

He looks down, and Steve’s head is angled towards the blanket, his eyes hidden from view. He tightens his arms just slightly around him. “I missed you too,” he says, the words settling like rocks into the silence of the room. Steve swallows, and his head presses backwards into his chest a little, as though returning the hug, and Bucky goes back to looking ahead of himself.

In all honesty, he’d probably be content to sit like this forever. It feels like he’s actively repairing something right now, and he can’t remember the last time he’d felt so relaxed. He doesn’t know what time it is exactly, but the dark sky outside Steve’s window shows that it’s still late at night, if not very early in the morning, but even the darkness of the room is calming in its own way. Despite his desire to simply sit with Steve though, the whole episode has reignited his worry over Steve, and the more he thinks about it, the more he feels the pressing urge to break down and ask about it.

He doesn’t know if now is exactly the right _time_ to ask, but he figures that right now they both seem relatively open to each other, and Steve can always refused to answer if he truly doesn’t want to, so he might as well try.

He shifts, looking back down towards Steve’s hair, and breathes in. “I never asked you,” he starts quietly, trying to ease into the question. “If everything was okay with you, after the ice.”

Steve stills a little at his words, but at least he doesn’t tense, and Bucky waits as patiently as he can while Steve thinks over his question, his gaze focused on the blanket in his hand. After a moment he shifts, curling his legs under himself and tugging on the blanket a little. “I’m alright,” he says, his voice hushed in the dark room. “I came out of the ice completely healthy, didn’t even have any of the injuries from the crash.” He swallows and picks at the blanket. “I just get nightmares about it sometimes.”

Bucky swallows and flicks his eyes over his friend. He doesn’t want to even _think_ about what injuries Steve is referencing, and the rest of what Steve had said doesn’t help him much. It still doesn’t explain what is happening with Steve _now_. “You…” He squeezes a little at Steve’s shoulder and tries to come up with a good way to say what he’s asking. “You still go to the doctor… a lot,” he says finally, his eyes on Steve’s hair.

His hair is mostly grey in the dim light, but it glints silver as he moves his head and shifts back to look at him. Bucky immediately lets his arm loosen, just in case Steve wants to pull away, but he doesn’t, only shifting so that he can rest his head higher on his shoulder, his fingers still on the blanket. “I guess… I did put it that way,” he says after a moment. “I forgot.”

Bucky blinks in confusion, and next to him, Steve sighs, his eyes focused somewhere across the room. “I do go to the doctor a lot,” he admits, his fingers massaging the blanket as he speaks. “But it’s… it’s a different kind of doctor. Called a therapist.”

“A therapist?” Bucky repeats, unsure what to make of the word.

Steve nods. “Yeah,” he breathes, before clearing his throat and resettling himself. “It’s…” He purses his lips. “It’s like a doctor for your brain I guess.” Before Bucky can go off in a spiral of concern over Steve’s brain, his friend continues. “Not that there’s anything physically wrong with my brain, I don’t think,” he reassures. “It’s more like…” He looks up at him. “Do you remember… during the war, sometimes soldiers would get sent home because they had battle fatigue, or shell shock?”

Bucky nods slowly. He doesn’t remember it exactly, but as Steve speaks, his mind flashes back to the scene of Steve under the tree with the empty look on his face, and, even more vaguely, he thinks that JARVIS might have once, long ago, mentioned the terms to him.

Beside him, Steve shifts a little and looks back down at the blankets. “It’s kind of like that,” he says. “They’ve researched it more now, after seventy years, and it’s called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD.” He swallows and takes in a breath. “Basically… when someone goes through something traumatic, like war, or abuse, or a disaster, their brain…” He waves a hand. “It’s like their brain is hurt, just like any other injury. And so, they might have nightmares, or flashbacks, or other things that mess with their life.”

Bucky nods as Steve speaks, and part of him can’t help thinking that a lot of what Steve is saying matches up with _him_ too, and, now that he thinks of it, if Steve has this… PTSD, then that might explain why he’d known how to help him during some of his worse flashbacks and episodes. He finds himself holding Steve a little tighter at the thought. He’s glad Steve had been able to help him but… he doesn’t like the idea of Steve having nightmares and flashbacks like him.

“Anyway,” Steve continues. “There’s things you can do to help treat and cope with PTSD. Sam actually helped me a lot in figuring it out.” There is a smile in his voice as he speaks. “That was his job before he came here, you know, and the therapist I go see helps me manage my… my PTSD.”

Steve breathes out, and Bucky works on processing what he’d been told. “So you’re not sick,” he says finally, relaxing a little.

Steve lets out a little laugh, and shrugs his shoulders. “That depends on how you look at it,” he says. “But I’m not dying or anything. Just… working on some stuff.”

Bucky nods slowly as he takes in everything. He doesn’t exactly know what to think about Steve’s PTSD. He’s glad that Steve doesn’t seem to be sick like he’d used to get, but he has a feeling that PTSD isn’t that great either. It is probably a good thing that Steve is going to a therapist then. “Your therapist helps you?” he confirms, looking down at Steve.

Steve nods against his chest. “Yeah,” he says easily. “I was nervous to go at first… but Jason’s really helped me. We mostly talk, but he gives me ideas for coping mechanisms, or helps me recognise unhealthy patterns that I’ve fallen into.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow slightly at the words ‘coping mechanism’ because he distinctly remembers Stark mentioning having those before, when they had been talking about Howard’s death. He wonders if Stark also has a therapist of sorts. Hadn’t… hadn't he said that he talked to someone too?

Next to him, Steve shifts, and Bucky’s attention gets drawn back to him. “You know,” he says slowly. “I bet there’s resources out there that could help you too.” Bucky blinks in surprise and Steve resumes his picking at the blanket. “Sam asked me once, if I wanted to look into getting a therapist for you,” he admits. “That was only a few days after you’d come to the Tower, and I was worried that you wouldn’t understand what was happening. I wasn’t sure you were ready for something like that.” He shifts to look up at him. “I didn’t…” He bites his lip. “I was doing my best Buck, but I don’t always know the best way to help you.” His fingers press into the blanket. “If you want, I think it might be a good idea to talk to Sam about this sort of thing.”

Bucky swallows and thinks over what Steve had said. While he doesn’t know how he would have reacted to one of these therapist people, since he doesn’t exactly know what talking to one of them is like, he can remember how he had been deeply suspicious of everything when he’d first come to the Tower. He’s only now beginning to even process the fact that what Hydra had done to him had been _wrong,_ so he doubts he would have worked very well with a therapist before.

As for getting one now… He doesn’t know how he feels about that. He’s opened up to a few of the Avengers – Romano– _Natasha_ especially – but he doesn’t know how he would feel about doing that with a stranger. Still… therapists seem to have helped Steve – and possibly Stark, so it might be a good idea to look into it, especially if he wants to work on being comfortable with being, well, Bucky.

“I’ll think about it,” he concedes, and Steve nods easily against him.

“You can ask me if you have any questions,” he says. “Or you could always ask Sam or JARVIS. They know a lot about it.”

Bucky nods and makes a mental note to look more into what Steve had been talking about. It sounds like something important to follow up on. They lapse back into silence after that, but it isn’t an uncomfortable one. Bucky keeps his hold on Steve just loose enough that his friend can pull away if he wants too, but otherwise he doesn’t move.

oOo

He hadn’t expected either of them to fall asleep again, but they seem to have, because he wakes up to the sound of Steve’s alarm and the sun streaming in through his window. Steve rolls instinctively to turn off the alarm, tugging the blanket with him, and Bucky pulls it back, still half-asleep.

He wakes up fully at Steve’s chuckle, and he blinks in surprise, squinting around the room as he tries to get his bearings. “Good morning,” Steve says, sitting up and running a hand through his bedhead. Bucky huffs and sits up too, his eyes on Steve. Considering the circumstances, his friend looks surprisingly well rested, which Bucky considers to be a victory.

Steve seems to think so too, because he glances over. “You know,” he says as he moves to push the blanket off his legs. “I think that’s the best I’ve ever slept after a nightmare.”

Bucky moves to get out of bed as well, stretching and rolling his shoulders a few times, his left one giving a twinge as he moves. “Me too,” he admits.

It is also, he realises as he makes his way towards the door and leaves Steve to get dressed, the first time he’s slept in a bed. Well. First time that he can remember. He’s sure he must have slept in one before Hydra, but he hasn’t slept in one for a really, really long time.

 _It was pleasant actually_ , he thinks as he heads over to his dresser to get dressed. It's his day to make breakfast, so he goes through his morning routine quickly, before heading over to the kitchen and taking his pain medication.

Steve comes out while he’s busy getting pancake batter ready, and he doesn’t know exactly what it is, but something seems to have finally settled between them. It's probably a combination of Steve telling him about his death, and their heart-to-heart last night, but Bucky can honestly say that he feels fully comfortable now with Steve. Of course, he’d felt comfortable with him before… but now, there is an understanding between them that hadn’t been there before.

He smiles as he turns on the stovetop and prepares to make the first pancake, his metal arm whining slightly as he moves. Behind him, Steve goes about setting the table and getting out condiments. Something about Steve seems to have settle too. He can’t actually put his finger on what it is, but Bucky gets the feeling that both of them had reached an important milestone last night.

“Hey, I was thinking,” Steve speaks up as Bucky flips a cooked pancake and goes to pour a new one. He looks up to let Steve know he’s listening and Steve fiddles slightly with a knife in front of him. “Well, I was thinking,” he says again, clueing Bucky into the fact that he’s slightly nervous about what he’s going to say. “Have you thought about maybe visiting Hannah sometime?”

Bucky’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, and he’s quick to turn back to his pancakes, using the distraction to give him a few moments to think. He… for some reason the idea hadn’t actually crossed his mind before now. It's possible that some part of him, despite his best efforts, still doesn’t feel Bucky enough… But for whatever reason, even though he’d been happily to learn that one of his sisters had survived, he hadn’t actually thought about _doing_ something about it.

“Do… do you think she’d want to see me?” he asks Steve, his stomach flipping along with his pancake. He may remember Hannah now, but he’s still certain that he isn’t the man she had known, and he probably will never be like he used to be. So, for all he knows, it might just be a kindness to leave her in the dark about what he had become—

“Of course she will,” Steve says without hesitation, and Bucky finds himself looking up at him, his eyes searching. Steve offers him a small smile, a glint of sadness in his eyes. “I’m sure she’d just be happy to know you’re alive, Buck,” he says.

Bucky goes back to flip his pancakes and pour in the last of the batter, thinking over Steve’s words as he works. Now… now that he can remember how it had felt when he’d thought that Steve had died… he has to admit that what Steve says makes sense.

“I don’t know if I told you…” Steve continues as Bucky waits for the pancakes to cook through. “But Peggy is alive too.” He smiles as Bucky gives him a surprised glance, before going back to his work. “She’s living in a retirement home in D.C.,” he explains, before seeming to trail off for a moment. “If you wanted, you could visit her too,” he says quietly. “But she… she has something called dementia, so, sometimes she doesn’t remember much.”

Bucky flips the last of the pancakes onto the waiting plate, before turning off the stove and turning back to Steve with the food. “Sounds like we’d be a pair,” he says wryly, and Steve laughs.

“I _did_ think it was a little morbidly poetic,” he admits as he settles down at the table and makes space for the plate of pancakes. “But I’ve visited her a few times now. She has good days where she remembers pretty well.”

There’s a look in Steve’s eyes that let’s Bucky know how the days when she _hadn’t_ remembered had gone, and he presses his lips together as he waits for Steve to fill his plate, before grabbing his fill. “I think…” he says slowly, after they’d been eating for a few minutes. “I don’t know if I’m ready yet, to visit them, but…” He shrugs his shoulders sheepishly. “I think I’d like that, eventually.”

Steve smiles as he takes a bite of his pancake, and Bucky finds himself reflecting the grin right back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always though in the MCU that we never got a proper emotional reunion between Bucky and Steve. We never got to seem them be properly comfortable with each other because they never got the time to talk on screen, and we never got to see them together when they weren’t trying to fight something. 
> 
> Anyway, in this chapter Bucky finally learns about Steve’s PTSD and the true nature of his doctor’s appointments, and he also gets to understand how that relates to himself, as well as start thinking about his future decisions about his family.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky makes some steps in the right direction... and has a problem.

Steve’s suggestion about visiting his sister and Peggy gets stuck in his head, and he can’t help himself from thinking on it over the next few days. He makes his way through the entirety of the book from the library, sucking up every scrap of information about his old self as he can, and he thinks.

The more he learns about himself, the more he wishes Hydra hadn’t taken it all away, and the more he wants to relearn it. He can’t help being angry that Hydra had ripped away his entire family, and… and part of him wants to reach out to Hannah, to reconnect with her somehow and rebuild that part of his life…

But he has to admit to himself, that the idea also makes him anxious.

Steve may be content to live with the Bucky he is now… but he has no idea what Hannah will expect from him, and… and he has no idea what he expects from Hannah. His sister has grown through a whole lifetime without him. She had still been a kid when he and Steve had left, and now she is an old woman. Not only does she not know him… but he doesn’t know her either, and he can’t help worrying that reaching out to her might be like trying to force two puzzle pieces together that no longer match.

But… at the same time… Hannah isn’t getting any younger. She is already eighty-seven, and if the death of the rest of his family has taught him anything, it’s that he has no idea how long he has until the last of it slips away.

He’s fairly certain that if Hannah— or Peggy— the two last people besides Steve that had known him in his past life, if they die before he manages to work up the courage to visit them then… then he’s certain he will regret it.

So. That leaves him with the only option of actually coming up with a plan and deciding to visit the two of them, despite how nervous it makes him. Still, he’s not about to go rushing into this. He had told Steve that he hadn’t been ready yet, and he hadn’t been lying about that… but, he decides there are some things he can do to settle himself and make sure he’s ready to take that step.

The first step is obviously making sure that his trigger words are well and thoroughly neutralised. He is absolutely not going to endanger or put his sister or Peggy at risk, so those need to go first.

It takes a bit of organising to make sure everything is ready for the test. He brings Steve into the BARF tech room with him, partly because he wants him to test the words in person, and make sure he can resist that, but also because every other one of his last few sessions with BARF have ended with him in distress in some way, and Steve being called, so he might as well just cut out the middle-man and bring him along.

He also has Stark come, because while he doesn’t really need him to run any tech… he can’t help feeling that with everything Stark had done for him, the man should be able to see the culmination of his work. He also brings Natasha, because he wants to test this _thoroughly_ , and he knows she will be able to say the trigger words for him. 

They all gather in the BARF room and he stands in the middle of the room facing them, trying to control the nerves twisting around in his stomach. He knows that he’d managed to resist Beck’s attempt at triggering him, but he can’t help feeling slightly nauseous at the idea that he might not be able to do it again.

He lifts his head. “If it doesn’t work—”

“Then we’ll use the shutdown protocol,” Steve reassures him, and Bucky nods. He’d asked for that specifically, because he’d rather be shutdown than be the Asset again. Hopefully if he gets shutdown, he might wake up as himself afterwards.

Hopefully.

In front of him, Steve swallows and rubs his hands on his pants, getting ready. Bucky swallows as well and tries to ignore the stab of guilt that he feels for making Steve do this. He knows it’s necessary, and that Steve is willing… but he doesn’t imagine that Steve finds the idea very enjoyable.

“Okay,” Steve says, setting his jaw. “Let’s get started.” Next to him, Stark sits in one of the chairs by the console and Natasha stands with her arms folded. Bucky flicks his eyes over them once before nodding back at Steve.

“Ready,” he says.

Steve offers him a tight half-smile before he breathes in. “ _Zhelaniye_ ,” he says, and Bucky fights against tensing, closing his eyes as he works on breathing in calmly.

 _“Rjavıy_ ,” Steve continues, his accent is a little off, of course, but more than passable as he lists off the Russian words. “ _Semnadtsat'_.”

“ _Rassvet_.” Daybreak. When Beck had been trying to trigger him, he had heard that word and thought about when a handler of his had violently woken him up, early in the morning. _This_ time, he thinks about waking up completely relaxed in Steve’s room, the sun shining in serenely through the window.

 _“Pech'._ ” Furnace. He thinks about Sam standing next to him by the stove, his eyes glinting mischievously as they engage in a pancake flipping competition.

“ _Devyat'_.” Nine. He begins to count off the people who have helped him to get to this moment. Steve, Stark, Natasha, Clint, Sam, Bruce and JARVIS. And then he adds, Peggy, and Hannah.

“ _Dobrokachestvennyye_.” Benign. That one is a harder one, but he focuses on what it means. Benign is not harmful, or… or kind, and _that_ is something he has experience with now.

“ _Vozvrashcheniye domoy_.” Homecoming. He almost smiles. That one is easy. Home is not difficult to find anymore, he doesn’t think. He’d been working steadily towards it (and he’d been right in the middle of it for longer than he’d known), and— he thinks of Hannah— he’s getting closer and closer every day.

“ _Odin_.” One. That one is harder, but he— he swallows and focuses down on one person. Last number he had counted everyone around him, and this time he counts only one person. Bucky.

“ _Gruzovoy vagon_.” Freight car. He doesn’t want to think about the train that had separated him from Steve and had started all of this, so instead he settles back into the memory that had been triggered for him last time, him and Steve as children, playing excitedly with a beloved toy—

“ _Soldat_.”

Oh.

He blinks.

It’s over.

He looks up, his eyes focusing on the crowd of people in front of him, Steve’s face staring anxiously out at him. He swallows and opens his mouth trying to come up with the words he wants to say. He knows the _other_ words, the words Hydra had taught him, but— but he doesn’t want to say those words, and he’d been so focused on the actual triggering sequence that he hadn’t thought much about what to do _afterwards_.

“Hey,” he says lamely, and in front of him, Stark lets out a snort of laughter, his hand coming up to his face as Steve’s own mouth twitches and he relaxes slightly. Bucky grins and swings his arms a little. “I don’t think it worked,” he says, his chest light to the point of giddiness. Steve’s whole face lights up as he smiles at that, and Natasha and Stark both look pleased as well as they look back at him.

They have to test it, of course, and Bucky takes great pleasure in deliberately stepping backwards when Steve orders him forward (and his pulse hardly even picks up at the thought of disobeying). Natasha has a go at the trigger words after that, and it ends the same way, Bucky gloriously free of any Winter Soldier compulsions.

They don’t try the Sputnik trigger, since that is a harder word to neutralise. He’d experimented a little with just saying parts of the word, or saying it really slowly, but it’s harder to resist a single word that knocks him out when he hears it. Of course he’d like to be free of all the words, and he’ll have to work on that one still… but the most _important_ trigger words… don’t seem to have any effect.

“Looks like you’re free,” Steve tells him, absolutely beaming by the end.

Bucky can’t help grinning back at him, his chest swelling with pride and joy as he breathes in. “Yeah,” he says, his throat tight and his voice filled with quiet awe.

oOo

Of course, even with the trigger words taken care of, he still doesn’t quite feel like he’s ready to reach out to Peggy or his sister. He’s still… He knows he’s still not quite like – well – like a normal person. He still slips up sometimes, thinking about Steve as his handler, or of himself like the Asset, and he still doesn’t know if he remembers enough to be the Bucky he wants to be.

He’s not even sure if he _remembers_ the Bucky he wants to be.

He seems to be… doing pretty well at it, all things considered. Steve at least, seems content with how things are going (but he also knows that Steve very much doesn’t want to pressure him into anything, and that Steve is probably working very hard on that.) But… despite everything, he can’t help feeling that he _is_ making progress in the right direction, even if he doesn’t exactly know what the end goal is.

Well, he does have one goal, and that is to get himself to a place where he’s ready to visit his sister.

So. Trigger words neutralised. The next things he needs to do are talk to Sam about the PTSD thing Steve had been talking about, and… and probably… probably get his own room.

The idea of getting his own room _feels_ strange, since… well, since he’s not used to having his own space like that. But Steve had brought it up not long ago, and Stark had also once mentioned to him that he could get his own room at some point. The fact that _both_ of them had talked about it leads him to believe that the arrangement he has with Steve now… isn’t exactly normal.

Of course, it makes sense when he thinks about it. Steve’s rooms are obviously designed with only one person in mind, which is why Bucky has spent the last few months sleeping on the couch. The other Avengers probably all have their own rooms too, and probably no one would look at him strangely for wanting his own space.

He… part of him honestly would not mind staying in Steve’s rooms. He’s used to it there, and— and Steve takes care of him there. But of course… that is because Steve used to be his handler, which he is _not_ now, and that means that Bucky is going to need to get used to taking care of _himself_. The idea is nerve-wracking, since he really doesn’t know exactly what that all entails… but if he wants to get used to being Bucky, then he’s going to have to figure out what that means.

Also, he doesn’t exactly feel ready to talk to Sam yet, so getting a bedroom is his only other option right now.

 _Yes,_ he thinks to himself — while also trying not to think of his bedroom as – as a mission. Because it’s not. A mission. It's just a goal. He doesn’t _have_ missions anymore, because he is a _person,_ and in order to _be_ a person (which is something he _wants_ to do, not a mission), then he needs to get a bedroom.

Yes. That’s… that’s how that works. 

Steve reacts well to his request to get a bedroom. Not that Bucky had really thought that he wouldn’t, since Steve had brought the idea up himself. But he doesn’t act overly happy at the development, nor does he look too disappointed at the thought of losing Bucky as a roommate, which is relieving.

Actually, his reaction, while pleased, is neutral enough that Bucky half-suspects that it’s practiced. Which… well, okay, it doesn’t surprise him. Since Steve had brought up moving rooms in the first place, he probably has been preparing for this possibility for a while, and would therefore probably want to be as supportive as possible about it. Hence the careful reaction.

He huffs, because while he’s glad Steve wants to support him, it also pretty much guarantees that he has no idea how Steve feels beyond that— which, is so much like Steve that it’s _ridiculous_.

“We’ll have to talk to Tony,” Steve tells him, bringing his attention to him as he nods his head towards the door of the apartment. “He’s probably in his lab.”

Somehow, he hadn’t been expecting to get a room _right away_ , and he can’t help feeling a little stunned as JARVIS confirms Stark’s location for them and Steve leads them both down to the elevator. He swallows as they wait for the lift, his mind racing with how fast everything seems to be going.

JARVIS brings the elevator for them and he steps in after Steve, his body shifting automatically to stand at attention as they get inside, as if the pose will somehow calm his racing thoughts. His metal arm whines slightly as he clasps it behind his back, and he rolls his shoulder trying to settle it as the elevator begins to move downward.

Now that he thinks about it, he… probably should have expected his request for a bedroom to be met immediately, but… he finds the idea makes his heart pound a little faster.

Next to him, Steve shifts a little closer. “You okay?” he asks, looking over at him as the elevator continues to descend. “You seem a little nervous.”

Bucky blinks at him, because while he’s not actually _wrong_ , he hadn’t thought he was being particularly obvious. “How’d you know?” he asks instead of answering, and Steve’s mouth quirks up at him.

“Your heartbeat,” he says, and Bucky raises an eyebrow at him, making Steve smile wider. “I can hear it,” he says, looking over him and tapping his ear. “Thanks to my serum. Not all the time of course, or I think I might go _nuts_ … but if I focus, or if I’m high on adrenaline or–” He shrugs a shoulder. “–if people around me have a change in pace, which usually happens if they’re nervous.”

Bucky huffs out a breath and shakes his head. “That’s cheating,” he says incredulously, and Steve lets out a chuckle.

“Yeah, well,” he casts him an amused glance. “It saved our lives more than once during the war.”

Bucky ‘hmphs’ at him and avoids any other questions about how he feels – nervous or otherwise – because JARVIS opens the elevator doors for them and lets them out into Stark’s labs.

“Hey guys,” Stark calls as they come in and he steps away from a collection of 3D projections of his Iron Man suit. One of the projections flickers slightly as Bucky looks at it, and it shows a slightly different suit than the others, a title under it reading **FUTURE SELF - NANO (?)**.

“What’s up?” Stark asks, drawing Bucky’s attention back to him and their reason for coming down. Bucky swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and Steve glances at him, before taking his silence as a cue to speak up.

“Well…” he says, looking at Bucky and then back to Stark. “Bucky and I were wondering if you had a room Bucky can use. You mentioned something about that before.”

“Oh.” Tony blinks, obviously a little surprised by the request, and he shrugs. “Yeah, of course,” he says, glancing at Bucky. “You can go wherever you want in the Tower, but there should be a room at the end of Steve’s hall if you want something closer.”

There’s a beat of silence, where Bucky just stares at him, and then– “There’s a what?” Steve’s surprised tone reflects his own feelings, and he looks over at him along with Stark.

Stark squints at him for a second before glancing between the two of them, a gleam in his eyes. “Well…” he starts off slowly. “Y’know, you can fit more than one room on a floor...” His mouth quirks up, seemingly amused at the fact that neither of them seem to have noticed anything beyond their own door on their floor. “I _did_ think about giving one floor to each Avenger, but Pepper convinced me not to.”

Steve huffs at that, and then proceeds to tell Stark how that sentiment is pointless because he had given each Avenger their own floor _anyways_ , a fact which Stark vehemently protests, since apparently Sam and Thor both technically share the same floor.

“Just cuz he’s not here doesn’t mean it doesn’t count,” he insists, waving a hand. “Besides, I think Clint’s moved part time into the room next to Natasha anyways.”

Bucky stays silent through most of their discussion, finding that the friendly debate helps calm his nerves a little about the whole ‘getting a bedroom thing’. Steve and Stark eventually seem to agree to disagree on whether or not Steve should have already known about the room next to him, and Stark waves them away, with a few parting words.

“Don’t move in anywhere until JARVIS can get a better mattress,” he says, glancing up at him. “I’m assuming you’ll probably want one like Steve’s.” Bucky agrees easily to that, because while he hasn’t slept on any softer mattresses, he hadn’t had trouble sleeping on Steve’s that one time, so it’s probably a safe bet to go with a harder one.

They leave after that, and Steve seems in good spirits as the elevator carries them back up to their floor. Bucky settles easily next to him, a little more relaxed now that the initial request is over, and he gives an absentminded roll of his shoulder, the joint creaking as he moves.

JARVIS lets them off once the elevator stops, and as one, he and Steve turn their heads as they get out, looking down the hall. Sure enough, at the very end of the hall, Bucky can just make out another door. “Oh _that_ ,” Steve says, letting out a breath, seemingly relieved that the room isn’t _super_ obvious. “I thought it was a maintenance closet or something.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He can honestly say that he had never thought about what that room could be, because he hadn’t seen it before. As the Asset he hadn’t been concerned with much on this floor besides his handler’s room, so he’d had no reason to go looking around. The thought feels kind of ridiculous now, because even as the Asset, he probably should have been paying closer attention to his surroundings.

To be fair, for a while he’d been rather distracted by the fact that his handler was letting him into his room at _all…_ and now… he’s getting a room for himself. The thought still feels strange, and a little frightening, so when Steve suggests that they check the room out, all he does is nod.

Steve casts a searching glance his way as they head down the hall, and he puts his hands in his pockets. “You know Buck,” he says, his eyes looking straight ahead when Bucky glances at him. “Even if you get your own room, that doesn’t mean you’re kicked out of mine. My door’s always open.”

Bucky blinks at him, and blushes slightly as he realises that Steve must have picked up on some of his apprehension (hearing heartbeats is _so_ cheating). “Yeah, okay,” he says quietly, part of him feeling ridiculous. The reason he’d wanted to get a room in the first place is because he’d hoped it would help him be more like a person, but he’s pretty sure that _most_ _people_ don’t get so nervous about this kind of thing.

It can’t be helped though, and a kernel of unease continues to sit in his stomach as Steve opens the door to the second room and they step inside. The apartment turns out to be a mirror of Steve’s own. The kitchen is on the right this time, and the bedroom and bathroom are switched, but the living room has the same basic TV, bookshelf and couch setup as Steve’s does, and Bucky can’t help finding the familiar surroundings a little comforting.

“You’ll probably have to clean it a little,” Steve comments, his eyes flicking over the scene. “But once we do that, and Tony gets a new mattress, you should be good to move in.”

He nods quietly at that.

They start cleaning the next day. It’s obvious that someone must have come in periodically to keep the room from falling into neglect, but there is still plenty of dusting and airing out that needs to be done before he can move it, and the job keeps them busy for several hours.

Bucky’s arm whines quietly as he wipes down the windows in the living room and he shoots it a glance before he gets distracted by Steve’s chuckling from the kitchen. “This brings back memories,” he says, sounding amused as he wipes down the counter. Bucky looks over at him with a raised eyebrow and Steve shakes his head, grinning. “Cleaning used to be one of the only real defenses against germs,” he says, going over to the sink to rinse out his cloth. “We cleaned _a lot_.”

Bucky finds his mouth quirking up at the thought and he turns back to the windows, moving his rag down to wipe the sills.

“We didn’t even have _vacuum cleaners_ ,” Steve gripes from the kitchen, and Bucky’s grin widens.

The cleaning helps a little to make the rooms seem more like _his_ , but the thought still feels mindboggling and slightly daunting. And he finds himself in the bedroom— _his_ bedroom— wiping down the desk that will soon be _his_ desk, opening and closing the drawers that will soon be _his_ drawers for him to use and put _his_ stuff in and— and he doesn’t know how to feel.

He really _shouldn’t_ be this nervous about getting a room. There is no reason for him to camp out on Steve’s couch when there is an empty room literally next door, because Steve isn’t his handler anymore and he isn’t the Asset and— and he's _allowed_ to have his own room.

But… but it feels like so _much_. He’s not used to _owning_ things. Even his weapons aren’t technically _his_. The very few things he has that are actually _his_ he has been hoarding carefully in his dresser, paranoid for the longest time that someone would one day come take them away.

But of course, no one will, because he’s not the Asset.

His metal arm lets out a quiet whine as he brings it up and runs his hand over the smooth wood of the desk in front of him. With a desk he won’t need to hide his journals and pens away in his dresser. He will actually have a place to _sit down_ and write. There is a window by his desk, just like Steve’s, and if he sits there, he can look out into the city, just to… just to look—

— _His door opens and he’s startled out of his day dreaming, his mind and his hand going back to the math homework he’s supposed to be working on. He glances behind himself to see who it is, and he blinks in surprise as he sees Hannah entering, her hair bouncing in twin pigtails as she walks over._

_She grins at him as she comes to stand next to his chair, her hand behind her back. “Guess what?” she says, bobbing excitedly on her toes and not waiting for him to answer. “We had art at school today! I maked you somethin’ all by myself.”_

_She whips her hand out from behind her back and proudly holds it out to him, her grin showing off the gap in her teeth. He shifts forward to see what she has, and balanced on her palm is a pinecone that has been rather messily painted blue._

_“Well, look’at this,” he says fondly, his face breaking out into a smile as he reaches for it._

_Hannah beams up at him. “We got to go outside to collect the cones,” she tells him as he makes a show of turning over the gift to see it in all it’s glory. “I made it blue cuz that’s your favourite colour—_

Something clatters from outside the room, and Bucky blinks, focusing back on the desk in front of him. It’s different, of course, from the desk that he’d had in the flashback, but he finds himself smiling as he thinks it over. He’s… he’s pretty sure that that had been his first flashback that he had remembered Hannah in all by himself, and then—

He lets out a small chuckle, shaking his head. He’d thought, hadn’t he, that blue was an important colour. Natasha had asked him once what his favourite colour had been, and he had said blue because it had been important… and all this time it had actually truly been his favourite colour.

Somehow, the knowledge that something so small and simple could still be the same after everything — could still be the same even when he had been the _Asset_ — well… it helps, a little.

oOo

Of course, once his mattress arrives and he can actually move in to his new room, he’s still rather apprehensive. He tries to keep it on the down low though — and if his heartbeat is irregular, Steve doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t have a lot of stuff to actually _move_ , mostly just his dresser, and for the first trip, he and Steve grab a drawer each and make their way down the hall.

“This’ll make carrying the actual dresser easier,” Steve says as they walk, and Bucky nods. He’s pretty sure they’re both strong enough to carry the thing, but he’d rather not risk dropping it. They make it to the room, and he swallows, his throat tight as Steve pushes open the door with his hip and they step in.

The sun is shining in through the windows in the living room, filling the room with a warm inviting light as they step inside, but Bucky is distracted away from it as they step past the kitchen, his eyes straying to something square and black left out on the counter.

It’s a laptop, and on top of it sits a StarkPhone and some cords. Stuck on top of everything is a little green sticky note with the words _Have Fun_ , scrawled on it in messy letters. He stops dead as he stares at it, and Steve stops as well, glancing back at him before his eyes drop to the counter. “Oh,” he says, a note of surprise in his voice. “Tony must have left this for you when your mattress came.”

Bucky nods, stunned, his mind spinning as Steve shrugs, lifting his drawer a little before turning to continue down to the living room. “It’s a good idea,” he says. “Most people have a phone and stuff nowadays. If you need help setting it up, I can show you.”

He nods again as he follows Steve into his bedroom, still trying to wrap his mind around the gift he had been given. Journals and pens are one thing but— but a phone… He really really isn’t the Asset anymore.

In front of him, Steve sets his drawer down onto his bed, the movement jostling some of the clothes within, and revealing the dark handle of a handgun. Steve raises an eyebrow and turns to him as Bucky moves to set down his own drawer. “You know…” He says slowly, his eyes flicking over the drawers. “It’d probably be a good idea to get a gun safe for these or something.” He waves his hand over the drawers. “Keeping weapons loose like that is a little dangerous.”

Bucky blinks at him, before flushing slightly. Of course most people don’t hide their weapons among their things like they’re afraid of them getting stolen. “Yeah,” he gets out, tugging on his shirt. “That’d probably be a good idea.”

Steve flicks his eyes over him, his gaze searching. “You alright?” he asks gently, obviously picking up a little on Bucky’s internal conflict.

Bucky takes in a breath and nods. “Yeah,” he says, a bit stronger this time, glancing around the room. “Yeah, it’s just… just a lot.”

He shrugs lamely at that, but Steve seems to get it. “No kidding,” he says, his mouth breaking into a crooked smile as he turns to head back. “You should have seen me when _I_ first moved in. These rooms are _twice_ the size of our old apartment.”

Bucky can’t remember much about their old apartment— size or otherwise— but he finds himself smiling anyways at Steve’s comment, his metal arm creaking slightly as he loosens his shoulders and follows Steve out of the room.

He brings in the third and final drawer (the most important one, with his journals, pens, pictures, and Stark’s glove) before he and Steve get to work on moving the dresser itself.

“Good thing this can fit through the door,” Steve comments from the front, his voice slightly strained as they carefully work on maneuvering it out into the hallway. “Else we’d have to take it apart and rebuild it.”

Bucky grunts and nods, his arm letting out an unhappy whine as they carefully angle the dresser so that it doesn’t scrape against the doorway. It’s a lot easier once they get into the hall, and he and Steve make good time until they get to the next doorway.

“One more after this,” Steve says as he shifts his grip a little and takes a slow step backwards. Bucky follows him into the room, careful not to move too fast for Steve and trying to resist the urge to roll his shoulder and reset the joint of his metal arm. It definitely doesn’t appreciate the heavy load.

They make it through the door to his bedroom and finally move to set the thing down by the wall across from his bed, lowering it down slowly so that they don’t drop it. “Alright, I’ll let go of my side first,” Steve tells him, kneeling across from him with his shoulder braced against the dresser.

Bucky nods intently, his metal arm letting out a low growl as Steve shifts his weight and drops his end to the ground. Bucky’s weight shifts in response, and he lifts his right hand up to push against the dresser so that he can carefully let go of his end too—

His breath catches and it takes him a second to even register the sharp, irritated groan that emits from his metal arm as he moves to lift his hand away. The dresser settles with a thud, but he hardly notices because his arm lets out a high, thin _shriek_ of grinding parts, and then promptly _locks down._

He lets out a gasp of pain and instinctively grabs at his arm, the metal completely paralyzed in its half-bent position. Of course, grabbing it only jostles everything, causing sparks of pain to shoot up into his shoulder and down his spine.

His vision swims, and he lets out a groan low in his throat, his breath coming out in strained gasps as his arm becomes a sudden deadweight against his shoulder. He’d forgotten just how _heavy_ it is when he isn’t busy holding it up, and now that it’s frozen, the whole weight of it hangs off him, accompanied by a slow burning sensation that spreads out through his shoulder joint and up his neck.

A hand touches his knee, and he jumps, his teeth clashing together as he holds back a yelp, regretting immediately how he jerks his head up to look beside him. Steve is kneeling next to him, his face creased with worry and his hands hovering uncertainly over him. “Bucky, what’s wrong?”

A wave of nausea crashes over him and his head dips forward as he swallows, needles of pain crawling at the edges of his prosthetic. “Hurts,” he grits out, a headache beginning to form behind his eyes. He tries to breathe in, and the movement draws a thin whimper from him, the nerves in his shoulder withering around and screaming like a mass of electrocuted worms.

Steve is talking to him again, but he finds he can’t exactly focus on his words, his brain muddled and slow as he tries to find some way to breathe with out sparking a new round of pain. He sways slightly, and Steve lays his hand on his back — not his arm — to support him, his face angled towards the ceiling now as he speaks.

It’s… probably a good thing that he’s here. Bucky can barely handle forming two coherent thoughts in a row between the waves of pain from his shoulder. The pain is mind-numbingly consuming, and if his han— if Steve wasn’t here then he’d probably be stuck, curled up in a ball of pain because it _hurts so much_ —

“Bucky.” Steve’s hands are on his face, and he hadn’t realised he’d closed his eyes until he has to open them to look at him. “Buck,” Steve says, his gaze intense. “JARVIS has called Tony and Bruce, they’re going to meet us in med-bay to look at your arm, we just gotta stand up now.”

He stares, because he can’t remember what part of that sentence he’s supposed to respond to, and his vision slides away as his handl— Steve presses his lips together. “We’re going to stand now,” he says tightly, rocking forward slightly and gripping Bucky’s right arm. “You gotta get up Bucky.”

Stand. Yes. Yes. He can do that. He— he can do that. He grits his teeth and leans his weight forward, Steve leaning back slightly and supporting his weight, his friend very carefully not touching his left one as he works on pulling them both up.

Black spots fill Bucky’s vision and he sways against Steve, his breath coming in harsh pants as pain fireworks through his shoulder and a muffled whine makes its way out of his throat. He finds himself trying to clamp down on the sound, cringing slightly because he’s not supposed to— not supposed to—

Sweat drips down his back and hands guide him forward as his mind muddles around in a fog. He takes a step, his ears buzzing as he grips the arm holding him for dear life, trying to keep his knees from buckling under him. The floor seems to move under his feet, but the arm under his, and the hand at his back keeps him upright, a voice whispering soothing, but incomprehensible words in his ear as they make their way painstakingly out of the room.

He’s leaning heavily against his handl— _Steve_ once they get to the elevator, his jaw clenched tight as his arm hangs off him, pulling and _pulling_ at his shoulder and dragging a headache to the forefront of his brain. At one point, he forgets himself and tries to lift his arm, trying to ease some of the weight pulling on his shoulder, but _that_ move makes him actually weak in the knees with pain, and he spends the rest of the trip down to med-bay swallowing back waves of nausea.

He doesn’t actually remember getting out of the elevator. His eyes close for a moment and he bites back a groan when his head falls forward, and then he looks up to find himself being guided towards a bed in a white room, two other people— Stark and— and Bruce, yes— coming over to him.

He can’t hold back a whimper as his handl— Stev— his handle— —He flinches as they get to the bed, a strangled noise catching in his throat as he gets sat down. His thoughts are muddied and slow and decidedly unhelpful as he clutches at Stev— his handle— —Pain shoots up his arm and he stiffens, his breath hissing between his teeth as he pants.

“You’re safe, it’s okay,” Hand— Steve is saying as he pushes him back into a semi-leaning position on the bed. One of the other men— agents— _Stark_ , is piling pillows under his metal arm to try to hold the weight of it, and the Asse— Bucky tries not to flinch away from him, his vision spinning as he looks up towards the ceiling.

There are hands on his face and he manages to look over at Steve, straining to focus on the words coming out of his mouth. “—going to look at it, okay? But Bruce is going to do something for the pain—”

His arm, or maybe it’s his shoulder, he can’t quite tell right now, but one of them takes the chance to spasm, and his vision whites out, cutting off whatever else his handler— _Steve_ had been saying. By the time the pain has ebbed enough for him to see again, someone— Bruce is next to him, a concentrated expression on his face as he wipes down Bucky’s right hand with an alcohol wipe.

Oh yes, he knows— knows what this is. IVs, he’s done IVs before, he— Pain knifes up his shoulder and he can’t swallow down a moan in response. He presses his lips together, trying to keep the sound in as his back arches, but he’s certain they’ve heard and— and he’s not supposed to—

“This is taking too long.” His handler’s voice is clear above everything else and he tries not to flinch, his eyes darting about as he tries to find him. What is taking too long? Is he supposed to be doing something? What—

Hands are on his face again, and his eyes dart up to fixate on a pair of blue looking down on him.

“ _Sputnik,_ ” his handler says, and the world fades to blissful black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Bucky continues to try to navigate his newfound personhood. You can tell that he wants to, but his motivation for doing it is a little scrambled, making him more anxious than necessary. 
> 
> And then of course, his arm acts up and causes a whole new problem…  
> I thought the Sputnik trigger word would be harder to learn to resist, since it’s just one word, and Bucky passes out when he hears it. 
> 
> Also, next week I will be posting my chapter on Tuesday instead of Wednesday, because I am going camping. This means that I will not be able to reply to any comments until I get back.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky deals with the aftermath of his arm.

He wakes up to the fuzzy bleariness that only comes with being heavily medicated. It’s a rare enough feeling, since with Hydra he had generally burned through sedatives rather quickly, so for a while, he just lets himself drift, enjoying the clean white lines of the ceiling above him.

It's only when he gradually becomes aware of the quiet sounds of someone breathing next to him that he blinks and starts to think back to _why_ he’s laying in a bed heavily medicated. He turns his head to follow the sound of the breathing, and experiences a half-second flare of alarm when part of him expects to feel a wave of pain at the movement. None comes though, and he’s left to flick his eyes over Steve, sitting in a chair to his right.

The memory of pain reminds him that he had been hurting not that long ago, but currently both his arms feel rather detached and ethereal, so he doesn’t worry about it much, instead swallowing and focusing on how Steve’s hair contrasts with the white wall behind him. Yellow and white. Or would it be gold? The light kind of makes it look gold— His eyes jump to Steve’s face as his friend leans forward, a gentle smile on his face.

“Hey,” he says, his eyes glancing over him. “Glad to see you’re awake.”

His words register, but feel strangely removed from him, so Bucky doesn’t answer, instead dropping his eyes down as he notices for the first time the IV line running from his right hand up to a bag above the bed. Steve follows his gaze too and shifts in his seat, crossing one leg over the other.

“We’ll call Bruce down to deal with that now that you’re awake,” he says. “Tony says he thinks he fixed the problem, so you shouldn’t be in any pain anymore.”

Bucky nods slowly, his head feeling both too heavy and too light, so that moving it seems to threaten both the possibility of it rolling off, and flying away. He gets distracted away from thoughts of balloon-heads because his eyes catch on a blue curtain that hangs on the other side of his bed, and he finds himself completely mesmerized by the way the folds of the curtain casts shadows on itself, making the blue look darker in certain places.

He glances away only when he hears the sound of someone else coming into the room, and his eyes glance over a man with glasses and unruly hair for a moment before he finally recognises him to be Bruce. “Hey Bucky,” he says, offering him a gentle smile. “I’m just going to get you off of the rest of the drugs, okay?”

Bucky nods, his head continuing to bob in a combination of too light and too heavy. Bruce smiles at that and Bucky can’t help thinking how nice it is that people smile at him so much now. He’d smile back, but he isn’t exactly sure if his mouth is working, so instead he just watches Bruce as he moves to clamp off his IV line. Once the line is dealt with, Bruce disappears for a moment to wash his hands, before returning and putting on a pair of gloves.

“This shouldn’t hurt too much,” he says as he walks him through the removal of the catheter. Bucky doesn’t even flinch as it comes out— he’s had plenty of worse removals by Hydra agents— and Bruce carefully wraps his hand before giving it a final pat. “I’ll come and check on you again once the drugs have worn off some more,” he says.

Steve stays sitting next to his bed after Bruce leaves, and Bucky can’t help the feeling when he looks over at him that he’s supposed to be embarrassed about something, but he can’t seem to remember why. He’s busy staring at Steve, trying to figure out what it is, when his friend leans towards him.

“Do you want some water?” he asks, and Bucky swallows, only just now realising how dry his throat is.

He opens his mouth to say yes— only to immediately close it again because for some reason the word ‘no’ rises in his throat— as if his mind and voice aren’t exactly connected, and he very much _does_ want water, so he keeps his lips pressed together for a few seconds until he is certain that his brain has the right word. “Yes,” he says finally, his eyes following Steve as he stands up and steps away for a moment before returning with a small plastic cup of water.

“Do you think you can handle it?” he asks as Bucky laboriously works on pushing himself up into a sitting position. “Or do you need a straw?”

“I don’t know,” he says bluntly as he reaches for the cup. Steve seems to find this amusing, and he hands over the cup carefully, keeping an eye on him in case he needs to intervene. Thankfully Bucky manages well enough, although his arms _do_ seem strangely long, and his mouth doesn’t quite seem to be where he thinks it is. He finishes with minimal spilling though, and eventually hands the cup back to Steve.

By the time Bruce comes back to check him over, Bucky’s brain is decidedly less foggy, and he’s able to answer his questions without much trouble. “How’s your arm feeling?” Bruce asks afterwards, and all their eyes get drawn to his metal limb as he lifts it and rolls his shoulder experimentally.

It moves slowly, without a hint of pain, and he relaxes at that. “Feels good,” he says, turning to Bruce. “Did you figure out what was wrong with it?”

Bruce reaches up to adjust his glasses and nods. “Tony will probably want to talk to you more about it,” he says. “But if I understand correctly what he said, your arm pretty much had the same problem his robots get. Wear and tear basically. He made some minor adjustments so that it wasn’t seized anymore, and he cleaned it out a little.” He shrugs. “From what he said, it sounds like this can be avoided with regular—”

“Maintenance,” Bucky cuts in, feeling drained, and a little ridiculous that he hadn’t realised that this would be a problem. Of _course_ his arm needs maintenance, he used to get maintenance on it all the time. Except, of course, those maintenance sessions had usually been done after a mission, and he isn’t _going_ on missions right now, and it hadn’t occurred to him to schedule his own maintenance sessions because he isn’t used to thinking about that sort of thing. Usually his handler takes care of that.

A flush rises on his cheeks as he looks over at Steve and remembers suddenly how he had accidentally slipped into mentally thinking of him as his handler again as his arm had screamed in pain. Steve is, of course, _not_ his handler, and had only been his handler for a short amount of time, it probably hadn’t occurred to him either that Bucky would need regular maintenance.

“I’ll talk to Stark,” he mumbles, looking back at Bruce. “I forgot my arm needed maintenance.”

The corners of Bruce’s mouth lift up as he smiles at him. “Well, it seems rather obvious now, but none of us thought of it either,” he says, and Bucky’s mouth twitches a little in a flicker of a smile. A part of him is a little surprised that no one seems upset with him that he hadn’t thought to warn them of this, but he’s pretty sure that is his Asset brain thinking, so he tries to ignore it.

Bruce leaves him with a few general reminders of aftercare, and to call him if there are any problems, before he clears him from med-bay and gets up to leave. Bucky watches him go before pushing away from the pillows behind him and carefully beginning to pull the blanket away from his legs.

“Bucky…”

He looks up and Steve’s gaze doesn’t quite meet his eyes. His hands still on his blankets as he looks at Steve, suddenly unsure what to expect with the sudden tension in the air. Steve shifts a little in the chair in front of him and flicks his eyes to him, his hands flexing from where they’re clasped in his lap. “Buck,” he says again. “I… I feel like I should apologize.”

Bucky blinks at him, and Steve’s mouth twists slightly, his eyes flicking down again. “When you were in pain and we were trying to help you, I used one of your trigger words,” he says quietly, and Bucky’s eyes widen slightly as he figures out where the conversation is going. In front of him, Steve’s jaw clenches and he sucks in a breath through his nose. “I’m sorry,” he continues. “I didn’t really ask if that was okay, and I should’ve. I want you to know that I won’t ever use that again unless you ask me to.”

His eyes meet Bucky’s at the end of his sentence, and Bucky is suddenly 100% certain that Steve had been thinking about this probably since the second the trigger word had left his mouth. For his part, Bucky hadn’t really had time to think about how he feels about being triggered, and he can see why Steve would be worried— the trigger words are inherently coercive after all— but Bucky finds that he doesn’t really feel upset about it.

“Steve,” he says quietly, holding Steve’s gaze. “I don’t think I can describe the amount of pain I was in. I was honestly glad to pass out.” Steve’s mouth twists and Bucky knows that his argument still isn’t enough to convince him.

“I still did it without asking,” Steve says stubbornly, and Bucky huffs out a breath through his nose.

He shakes his head. “There wasn’t time.”

“I know, but—”

“Steve,” he says, forcing his friend to stop talking and listen to him. “I know you would never use that word without a good reason.” He offers him a small half-smile. “When you said it, you were acting as my friend. Not my Handler.”

No matter _what_ his brain might have been thinking at the time, which is something he’s going to have to deal with later, right now Steve is looking relieved and relaxing as he smiles back at him. “You have my permission to say it if something like this ever happens again,” Bucky tells him as he finally moves to push himself off the bed.

“I hope I _never_ have to do that again,” Steve says vehemently, standing up to follow him out of the med-bay. Bucky smiles at that and stops to stand outside of the elevator, looking down as he flexes his right hand. He can probably take the bandage off soon.

Steve stands beside him and they both ride the elevator up to their floor. He is suddenly reminded as he steps off, that he has a room of his _own_ now, and he tenses slightly at the thought. The incident with his arm hadn’t given him much of a chance to get used to the idea, and he’d been unconsciously expecting to go to Steve’s room like usual, so the change is a little jarring.

Steve invites him to his room for lunch though (and Bucky can’t help wondering if the offer is spontaneous, or if his heartbeat is tattling on him again). He accepts, following Steve to his room and removing his redundant bandage as Steve figures out what they will eat. He ends up pulling out a mountain of bread and toppings for them to make sandwiches, telling him as he does so that he’d finished putting in the drawers of his dresser while Bucky had been recovering in med-bay.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he says, as they begin assembling the first of their many sandwiches. “I kind of needed something to do.”

Bucky smiles at that and assures him it’s fine. In all honesty, knowing Steve had been in his room makes the place feel a little less intimidating for some reason.

“That reminds me,” Steve says as they make a few more sandwiches and Bucky internally realises that Steve might have invited him over for a reason besides sensing his discomfort — his room is empty, he hasn’t actually stocked it up with food yet. And that’s… that is something people have to do when they have rooms of their own.

“I saw your laptop and phone again,” Steve continues, distracting him away from questions about how and what kind of food he should buy. “If you want, we could go through them and get you set up.”

Bucky swallows and pushes away the thought of food for now, nodding gratefully at the offer. Hydra may have trained him how to hack into things, but he doesn’t actually know how to set stuff up like a normal person.

After lunch he goes and gets his phone and laptop, and he and Steve spend the rest of the afternoon laboriously making email accounts and phone accounts and other such accounts that seem to be required in order to use technology. Bucky eventually has to get one of his notebooks to write down all his new passwords in, just to avoid the risk of forgetting anything.

“Oh,” Steve says eventually, while they’re looking over the app that displays his phone account and bills. “I wonder if you still have a bank account… I did when I woke up.”

Bucky blinks, because he hadn’t actually _thought_ about money much, but now that he needs to do things like order food and maybe buy things for himself, it is probably a good thing to be familiar with.

JARVIS informs them that he _does_ in fact have a bank account, and he had never been officially declared dead, so his army wages have just been slowly accumulating in it over the years. Once he and Steve manage to get access to it (he suspects JARVIS has a hand in helping them with that) and he sees how much he actually has in there, he can’t help being a little shocked.

“That’s a lot, right?” he says, turning to Steve. He can’t exactly remember much about his financial past, but he’s pretty sure that that many digits are impressive.

Steve’s mouth splits into a grin. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I was pretty shocked too when I saw my account waking up.” He shrugs. “’Course, things are a lot more expensive too now, you know. So that takes some getting used to…” He looks down at the account numbers again. “But between this and living in the Tower, you probably don’t have to worry, even if you never work again.”

The idea of working – at all – throws him a little, because he hadn’t really thought of that possibility before, but he mostly ignores the idea for now as Steve walks him through online banking and online shopping, as well as ordering a bank card for him.

“JARVIS can help you with this stuff too, of course,” he says. “I find it’s easier to use him most of the time.”

Bucky thinks back to the empty shelves in his kitchen that he’s now going to have to fill, and he looks over at Steve. “Is that how you buy food?” he asks, because he’s beginning to realise that being a person holds a lot of unforeseen responsibilities. He’d been busy worrying about using the right names for himself and getting used to having a room, and he hadn’t even _thought_ about bank accounts and shopping trips and probably a whole _host_ of other important things.

His question is seemingly a good one, because Steve lights up. “Oh yeah,” he says. “He’s really great for that. I had a hard time with eating enough food before— you know, with the amount of calories we need—” Bucky actually _hadn’t_ known, but he doesn’t get a chance to say anything because Steve continues. “But JARVIS can order the right amount, or tell you how much of something you need to eat. I found it really helpful after a while.”

Bucky can only nod, and try to ignore the part of his brain that is busy trying to freak out over the thought of Steve not eating enough food. Obviously things are fine _now_ , and he hadn’t exactly been in a position to notice anything wrong _before_ , so there is no point in getting upset over it now.

He tries to let it go as Steve shows him the basic apps on his phone and introduces him to the pros and cons of social media. “I don’t really have an account on any of them,” he says. “But people use them to keep in touch with people, or to keep informed, or to just…” He shrugs. “Well, sometimes they just want somewhere to rant honestly. It’s a lot like newspapers used to be actually. People used to take out little sections to complain about spring weather and the youth and such.”

He grins at that and Bucky can’t help grinning back. He can’t remember newspapers like Steve had mentioned, but he wouldn’t be surprised to see that people haven’t changed that much over the years.

Once they’re finished setting up his phone and laptop, Bucky comes to the realisation that he doesn’t have any more excuses to stay in Steve’s room (and out of his own.) Steve had said, of course, that his door is always open… but Bucky is probably going to have to go _actually stay in his room_ today, which is still a vaguely uncomfortable idea.

 _If I want to get used to being Bucky, I’m going to have to get used to the room_ , he thinks stubbornly, trying not to think back to the fact that he’d accidentally started thinking of Steve as his handler not even a _day_ ago. He needs to get better at this sort of thing if he wants to go see his sister.

To that end, he eventually packs up his things and sees himself out of Steve’s room. The walk down the hallway seems unusually long, and he ends up standing for several minutes in the threshold of his room, just staring at all his space.

He thinks back to when he had first been brought to the Tower and he’d thought he was going to be sent to a cell. The thought makes him huff in amusement and shake his head, unrooting him from his spot in the entryway. His past self had simply been shocked at being allowed to sleep on Steve’s couch, something like having his own room would have been unthinkable.

It’s happening now though, and he makes his way deeper inside, setting his phone and laptop down on the kitchen counter and looking around for a moment before tentatively moving on to ask JARVIS about ordering groceries. He needs something for supper after all.

He tries to ignore how large and silent the rooms are around him when he’s not talking to JARVIS.

oOo

He slowly gets used to his room. It still feels weird of course, but it _is_ nice to have his own space and be able to have his _own stuff_. He displays the picture Steve had drawn of him on top of his dresser now because he _can_ , and he finds it relaxing to have a ‘safe space’ so to speak. No matter how comfortable he is with Steve or the other Avengers, there is still a deep part of his Hydra training that is worried about offending them somehow. He doesn’t have to worry about that inside his room though.

He tries not to hide away too much in it though, because that also feels weird and he slowly eases into the idea of seeking out his own enjoyment. The Avengers are generally open to spending time with him, which helps, even if he can’t stop thinking about what Steve had said about PTSD every time he sees Sam.

He doesn’t feel ready yet to broach that topic with him, but that leaves him with no excuse when it comes to seeing Stark about his arm. He knows he needs to do it, if only to make sure his arm is fully functional, but every time he thinks about it, his stomach clenches with nerves, leaving him feeling nauseous.

He doesn’t actually think he’s afraid of _Stark_ , they seem to be at an understanding, but he doesn’t think he has a single fond memory of maintenance. Even his first session with Stark had been tainted with terror, even though nothing bad or painful had happened. 

He ends up not having much of a choice either way, because a few days after the incident with his arm, Stark ends up calling him down to the lab himself, and Bucky can't come up with a good enough reason to refuse.

He tries to breathe in evenly as he heads down to the labs because he _knows_ nothing bad is going to happen, Stark has always been very careful with his arm. Even so, his brain hasn’t quite forgotten the pain his arm had been in a few days ago, and he finds himself rolling his shoulder joint a few more times than necessary, his mind convinced that some kind of pain should be there, despite having taken Bruce’s medication.

The elevator doors open, and he sucks in a breath before finally exiting and letting himself into Stark’s lab. The man himself is sitting at one of the metal tables looking at something on a tablet and he gives him a little wave as Bucky comes in, his eyes still mostly focused on the device in his hands.

A squeal cuts through the air, and Bucky is distracted by an onslaught of happy robots as DUM-E and U rush over to him. He finds himself relaxing slightly as he pats the two bots and navigates his way over to Stark’s table, the excited machines following him like an adoring crowd.

By the time he makes it over to the table, Stark has set aside his tablet and is looking distinctly amused by DUM-E and U’s antics. “I’m beginning to think you’ll have to come visit them more often,” he says easily, his eyebrow quirked as he watches Bucky sit down on a stool across from him. “They seem taken with you.”

The comment helps relax him even further and Bucky lets himself smile slightly. “Well, I might have to,” he says with a shrug. “Depending on what you think of my arm.”

Stark’s eyes light up a little at that and he leans forward. “Right,” he says, reaching with one hand to pull his discarded tablet closer. He clicks it on and swipes around on it for a few moments before turning it around to face Bucky, the screen now showing a 3D blueprint of his metal arm. “I was thinking we should probably do something so that our latest medical emergency never happens again.”

Bucky nods and swallows, unconsciously moving to lift his metal arm so that it’s resting on the table beside him, the muscles in his back tensing. “Was there anything really wrong with it?” he asks.

In front of him, Stark shrugs, looking down at the tablet. “Nothing broken or anything,” he says, before shaking his head. “To put it bluntly, I don’t think it was designed to be user friendly.” He looks up at him. “The way it is now, it’s not designed for someone to be able to manage by themselves.”

Bucky presses his lips together and curls his right hand into a fist in his lap. “Makes sense,” he says shortly. He doubts Hydra would have wanted their asset to be able to maintain himself.

Stark gives him a sharp nod and taps his finger on the table. “That, plus how heavy it is, and the invasive way it’s connected…” He waves a hand over Bucky. “I mean, I can always look after it for you, but I’m thinking it’d just be better to replace the whole thing and start over with something better.”

Bucky’s mouth feels dry as he swallows, and his arm on the table suddenly feels far away. “You can do that?” he asks.

Stark shrugs. “Well, not me _personally_ ,” he says. “I’d definitely help design the new arm, and then we’d find some qualified doctors to do the surgery.”

Bucky nods mutely and listens as Stark begins to outline his basic plans for a new arm. For some reason the idea hadn’t occurred to him before. Oh, he can remember vaguely sitting in terror when Stark had mentioned it before, a day or so after he had come to the Tower, but he’d been the Asset then, and once the idea had been dropped he’d ignored it for more important things.

But now it’s here again, and he understands why. His metal arm is _Hydra’s_ , designed to be a weapon, something to kill people with. It’s unwieldly and heavy and not designed for him to actually be able to _live with_. It makes sense to replace it— part of him actually _wants_ to replace it, change it into something of _his choice_ — but he can’t help the crawling anxiety that twists in his chest and spurs his heart along as he thinks about the _last_ time he had been given an arm.

Hydra had given it to him, he knows that for sure now, and they’d tried to keep him sedated, but of course it had only worked so well, and he’d been half-conscious for the whole thing— until he’d eventually passed out from the pain— and then he’d woken up, and that _thing_ had been attached to him, and they were trying to figure out if it worked and—

— _his shoulder burns trying to lift it, his nerve endings crying out as he flexes his fingers. His right hand, he can feel, but his left hand, the metal one, he can't— he can see it moving, following his commands, but— but he can’t feel a thing. The fingers move like some kind of alien creature attached to him. A cold, heavy alien that hangs off his shoulder like a poisonous leech, straining his neck and shortening his breath as he tries to breathe through his new-found pain._

 _He looks up, and one of the “doctors” is stepping up to him, a clipboard in hand as he comes over to check his work, to determine whether the surgery had been a success— Anger surges through him with a sudden crushing force, and he lifts the hated, metal atrocity, ignoring the pain that shoots up his shoulder as he wraps his hand around the doctor’s neck and_ squeezes—

“–arnes? Bucky? Hey.”

He blinks, and flinches, because there is something by his face, and before he can think, his arm is flying up to bat it away. It's his right arm that raises – because his left is still glued to the table – and it stings as he hits something hard.

The brief pain is enough to shock him further into reality and he turns his head to see DUM-E next to him, his metal claw outstretched towards him. He blinks and stares, his head still feeling slightly fuzzy as he tries to figure out what is going on. He hears the sound of breathing near him and his head darts towards it.

Stark is there, of course. For a second he had forgotten about him, but the man is sitting across from him, his chair pushed back a few inches as he watches him carefully. His eyes flick down to his arm for a second before he glances back up at him. “You alright?” he asks evenly.

Bucky finds his eyes dropping down to his arm as well and he sees that his left hand has formed a fist, a few new, deep scratches on the table where his hand had been resting. He breathes in and his chest feels rather tight. “Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah I—” His words choke off and he blinks several times because he suddenly feels quite lightheaded, and he finds his left hand uncurling and pressing down onto the table in an effort to keep upright.

He’s aware of Stark’s eyes on him, but he can’t seem to take his gaze off his metal arm, memories from his flashback of his absolute hatred for it flooding his brain. Without thinking his right arm comes up to his left collarbone and he tugs at his shirt, his skin crawling because he wants it _off_ and he—

— _claws at the metal junction in his shoulder. It hurts but he doesn’t care. It hurts and it’s heavy and he wants it off_ right now _and it hurts_ All The Time _—_

“Woah, Barnes— Bucky? Bucky!”

He blinks and sucks in a breath, his eyes sweeping up to focus on Stark, who’s suddenly standing up from his chair, his hands out placatingly. His face is pale and tense, and he flicks his eyes over him, seemingly frozen with tension.

“Look,” he says slowly. “Maybe we should save this for another day. Do you want me to call Stev—?”

“I want it _off_ ,” Bucky cuts in, and Stark darts his eyes from his face to his collarbone and back again, his tongue darting out anxiously to lick his lips. Bucky blinks and looks down, his eyes focusing on the fingertips of his right hand that are now frozen in the act of digging into his shoulder.

He swallows and pulls his hand away, Stark watching him as he sets his hand on his lap and breathes in a few times, trying to calm himself. He hadn’t broken skin. That is good, at least. Right?

Stark watches him for a moment before sinking back down into his chair, his hand coming up for a second to rub at the centre of his chest. His eyes glance over him and Bucky breathes in slowly again, trying to seem settled. In front of him, Stark swallows, his thumb still rubbing over his chest. “I won’t be able to take it off right away,” he says quietly, his eyes on Bucky. “But we can get started on the design.”

Bucky swallows and nods stiffly, Stark seeming to relax a little at his continued lucidity. “I was of course thinking of making it lighter,” he continues, the fingers of his other hand tapping for a second on the table next to his tablet. “And if you want, we could make it detachable—”

“Yes,” Bucky agrees immediately, sitting up. “And not— not a weapon this time. Not a weapon.”

“Done,” Stark says instantly.

oOo

He makes it through the other minor details that Stark needs to get started on the designs, and he skirts around DUM-E as he leaves, wincing slightly as he remembers how he’d lashed out at the robot during his flashback.

He thinks back to the scratches he’d made on the table— and the Hydra doctor he’d apparently choked— and he shivers. So far he’s never hurt anyone during his flashbacks but— but Stark had been right _there_ , and he’d hit DUM-E— and if— if Stark had been closer— if he hadn’t woken up in time— if he’d—

The image of Howard, his nose broken and bloody in front of him, flashes through his mind and he swallows down a wave of nausea. No. _No._ He must make sure something like that _never_ happens.

He sucks in a shaky breath and sets his jaw. His flashbacks are dangerous, that is obvious now, and judging from what Steve had said… in order to help manage his flashbacks… It looks like… it looks like he’s going to have to talk to Sam sooner than he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Bucky woke up and was thankfully not the Asset. It was fun writing his waking up scenes, the bit with the water and him almost saying no is a direct memory from me, except I actually DID say no, to a popsicle no less, and I have no idea why. I very much meant to say yes XD
> 
> But now Bucky has to address his arm, and he’s in a place to make decisions about it and process what it is to him and what Hydra did to him. 
> 
> I will be away camping so I won’t be able to respond to any comments until I get back, but I will be posting my next chapter on Wednesday like usual.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky talks to Sam

Deciding to talk to Sam and actually doing it are two different things, and for a few days after his incident in Stark’s lab, he doesn’t make good on his decision. Every time he thinks of approaching the subject with the man, the words seem to get stuck in his throat, and he chickens out.

But. He needs to do it. He _knows_ he needs to, because, if the flashback in Stark’s lab had taught him anything it’s that his flashbacks don’t just affect him, and he needs to make sure that he’s _safe._

Especially if he ever wants to go visit Peggy or his sister.

Eventually, he decides that it’s unlikely that he’s ever going to figure out the right words to say. Even Steve seems to have a hard time talking about it, so the odds of him figuring out how, and what he wants to say, and then being able to actually _say it_ , are pretty low. So, instead he writes a note.

It’s easier, writing it down, and he tears the page out of his journal once he’s finished and folds it up carefully in his pocket with an air of deliberation. Now… now he just has to actually find Sam, and give it to him.

Right.

The note stays in his pocket for another day and a half.

Eventually, the fact that the edges of the paper are getting a little worn and frayed finally pushes him into forcing himself into trying to find Sam. He doesn’t exactly know how to best set up the conversation. He’d rather do it in private, without any of the other Avengers around, but in order to do that… he kind of needs to specifically ask to meet Sam.

He hasn’t intentionally sought out any of the Avengers except for Stark, so the concept is a little daunting and he finds himself baulking at the idea. Instead he asks JARVIS to alert him if Sam is ever in the common room by himself so that he can talk to him.

He supposes he’s rather lucky that he doesn’t actually have to wait that long for that to happen (a very small part of him wonders if JARVIS had any hand in orchestrating it), because only a day after his request, JARVIS informs him that Sam is reading alone on the common room couches.

Despite his decision to get this all over with, his mouth goes dry at the announcement, and it takes several seconds for him to work up the words to respond. “Thank you, JARVIS,” he says, swallowing as he feels the paper sitting in his pocket. He breathes in once and sets his jaw. Time to go. 

He makes his way to the elevator and waits while JARVIS takes him up to the common room, his heart in his throat and his right palm sweating against his leg. The doors open and he tries to breathe in deeply – although that seems a little harder than usual – before he steps out, turning to look towards the couches.

Sam is indeed there, and he looks up at the sound of the elevator, a book nestled comfortably in his lap. Bucky swallows once and begins to march stiffly over towards the couches. Sam must see something in his face, because he doesn’t go back to his book, instead he watches him come closer with a look of slight puzzlement in his eyes.

For his part, Bucky stops and stands stiffly in front of the couch, his tongue working in his mouth as Sam stares at him. After a moment he manages to reach into his pocket and pull out the slightly wrinkled note. Without a word, he thrusts it out towards Sam, his pulse loud in his ears and his heart heavy in his chest.

Sam reaches silently for the paper, and Bucky drops his hand as soon as he takes it, wiping it nervously on his pants as he waits. Logically he knows that there isn’t much to be nervous about really, if he’d understood Steve properly, then Sam is used to this kind of thing, but… But he’s never done something like this before, and he doesn’t exactly know what will come of it.

Sam, at least, seems willing to roll with the strangeness of the situation, accepting the paper without comment and unfolding it to read quietly. Bucky presses his hands into his legs and breathes in through his nose, trying not to think too much about the ramble of words he’d written down. He hadn’t exactly known where to start with the note, but it all eventually boils down to the fact that Steve had spoken to him about PTSD, and that he should talk to Sam about it, and that Bucky is beginning to think he might need some help in that area.

His mouth is dry when Sam looks up at him and— and smiles. The expression is more comforting than he’d been expecting, and his knees feel suddenly weak as Sam pats the couch next to him, prompting him to sit down. “I’m glad you decided to talk to me about this,” he says as Bucky settles. “That was very brave.”

Bucky flushes slightly and finds his head ducking so that his hair swings in front of his face. “I just don’t want to hurt anyone,” he mumbles, his hands tight in his lap.

Sam smiles at him again and shifts slightly on the couch. “I’m sure you don’t,” he says softly. “But this is often hard for people to talk about, so you made a big important step today.”

Bucky relaxes slightly and breathes in, looking up at Sam. “What… happens now?” he asks, his eyes flicking to the note still in Sam’s hand.

Beside him, Sam sets his book aside and crosses his leg over his knee, setting the note on the couch cushion between them. “I don’t know how much you remember of PTSD and mental health back in the 40s,” he says, watching him. “But there’s been a lot of improvement, research and advancement in those areas over the last 70 years.”

Bucky nods, because he can remember Steve saying something similar to that, and Sam clasps his hands in his lap as he looks at him. “There are medications that help with PTSD,” he says. “But with your serum, that probably won’t be a viable option. But,” he gives him a smile. “That’s okay, because talk-therapy is one of the best treatments for PTSD.”

Talk-therapy, as Sam explains, seems to be exactly what it sounds like, and Bucky knows that that must be what Steve does with Jason, but— “I don’t–” He swallows and glances up at Sam. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” he admits, his stomach squirming. “I don’t—” He hadn’t even been able to tell Sam about his problem directly, he’d had to write it down first, and he’d hardly been able to talk to _Steve_ about what Hydra had done to him, and Steve _already knows most of it_ , the idea of talking to a stranger about it…

“That’s okay,” Sam says gently, his eyes understanding. “Everyone moves at a different pace.” He shifts and glances over him. “Talk-therapy is something you should keep in mind, because it really _is_ very helpful, but there are some other things we can do until you’re more comfortable.” He smiles slightly. “Do you have a phone?”

He does – thanks to Stark – but he isn’t in the habit of carrying it around with him, so it’s back in his room. That isn’t a problem though, because… he can… he can invite Sam back to his room if he wants. The thought makes him a little more excited than most people probably would be, but it _is_ the first time he'd invited anyone but Steve into his room.

He collects the note and they head to the elevator, standing next to each other as JARVIS brings them up, Bucky mulling over their recent conversation. “Couldn’t I talk to _you_?” He asks after a moment, looking over at Sam. “Instead of a different therapist?” Talking to Sam would be a lot easier he thinks, than talking to a stranger. He’d be a lot more comfortable with Sam than someone he doesn’t know.

Sam doesn’t look very surprised by his question, but he shakes his head. “As your friend, I shouldn’t be your professional therapist,” he says (and Bucky can’t help the flare of warmth that shoots through him at the word ‘friend’.) “I can of course help you and offer advice,” Sam continues. “But something important with therapy is professional-distance. Once you’re comfortable with a therapist, you might tell them things you wouldn’t want to tell your friends, and you don’t have to see your therapist everyday, like you would a friend.”

Bucky nods in understanding. Sam’s explanation makes sense, after all, being close to Steve is the whole reason he hasn’t talked to him much about Hydra, so it stands to reason that something similar would happen with Sam. (And now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t think he could bear trying to talk to Sam about Howard.)

Not that he really feels ready to talk to a different therapist though. 

Either way, even if Sam can’t be his actual therapist, he’s glad that he seems willing to help him, and once the elevator stops, he leads them both down the hall to his room. Once inside, he leaves Sam to wait in the living room as he goes into his room to fetch his phone.

He has no idea what Sam has in mind, but he sits next to him on the couch and holds out the device, curious despite his lingering nerves. “Awesome,” Sam says as he leans towards him. “Have you ever downloaded an app before?”

He hasn’t, and Sam shows him the application to push, the phone lighting up to show an online store to buy other apps. “Okay,” Sam says. “So, there’s lots of online resources and stuff now that are available for PTSD,” he explains. “I was thinking you could start looking into those, until you're ready to try a therapist.”

Bucky nods in agreement, and Sam shows him an app that had been created by the VA. _PTSD Coach_ , it says, and Sam clicks on it, letting Bucky put in his password so that the app can begin to download. “This is a really great tool,” he says, once it’s ready. The new app shows up and Bucky clicks on it, letting it open up on his screen.

“Basically this was designed as a PTSD resource,” Sam continues. “It doesn’t replace therapy, but–” He begins to point at the four main panels of the home page, “it can help you learn about PTSD, track your symptoms, manage them, and get additional support.”

He points at the ‘Track Symptoms’ box. “This one is good for helping you recognise your PTSD symptoms,” he says. “I’d encourage you to try out the app, it can help you figure out what you need to improve on and give you suggestions on what to do.” He smiles at him. “It can help a lot with managing your life, goal setting, that kind of thing.”

Bucky blinks at the app, mentally chewing over the idea that it could help him take charge of his own life. “Like being my _own_ handler,” he says without thinking, only to freeze a moment later, his eyes darting over to Sam, his stomach dropping as he realises what he’d said.

He knows he’s not the Asset, of course he does, but he can’t help that he sometimes still thinks along those lines. Case in point when he’d accidentally started thinking of Steve as his handler not that long ago— and he _knows_ that is not how most people think, and most of the time he’s _fine_ but—

“Yes,” Sam says softly, his response entirely unexpected.

Bucky stares at him in mute confusion and Sam offers him a small smile. “If it helps to think of it that way, that’s fine,” he says gently before giving him a thoughtful look. “If you think about it,” he says after a moment. “We’re _all_ our own handlers.” He shifts and his eyes seem to stare into him. “We’re all just trying to do our best to be good handlers for ourselves, and–” He gestures to the phone. “Things like this are tools to help us along the way.”

oOo

His conversation with Sam sticks in his head. The idea of being his own handler… well, that _is_ kind of what he’s been doing for the past little while. Making his own food and sleeping in his own bed and making his own decisions. Those are all Handler things, because those are all _people_ things. But… that isn’t the part that sticks out to him the most.

What he can’t stop thinking about, is the part about being a _good_ handler to himself. He’d thought – hadn’t he – when he’d been the Asset, that Steve had been a _good handler_ , and at the time he’d thought that he hadn’t quite deserved that.

But… but, he _does,_ doesn’t he? Because… _everyone_ deserves good handlers (even if most of the time, they _are_ their own handler.)

He’d been working so hard on being Bucky — and he has to admit that it _had_ been kind of like a mission to him — and he hadn’t been— hadn’t been exactly _punishing_ himself for— for being _not_ Bucky… but… But he _had_ felt like he’d been failing at it when he had accidentally started thinking of Steve like his handler again, and when he’d been nervous about getting his room.

But… but what would a handler, a _good_ handler – like Steve, think of his efforts? A good handler probably wouldn’t get mad at him if he sometimes forgets the right names, or if he is nervous trying new things. A good handler would understand that— that things take time, and that he’s _trying_.

A good handler probably wouldn’t hold his visit to his sister over him like some kind of reward. A good handler wouldn’t make him work for it. A good handler would let him go whenever he wants.

A good handler probably wouldn’t get mad at him if he has a hard time being a good handler to himself.

Can… he be a good handler to himself? What would that look like, exactly?

He dives into the app that Sam had shown him, in an effort to find out, and he spends the next several days exploring the various features. The home page has four main elements, and he first clicks on ‘Learn’, deciding that he should probably know a bit more about this… ‘mental illness’ that he has now. _That_ section opens up to three more sections, ‘Learn about PTSD’, ‘Getting Professional Help’, and ‘PTSD and the Family’.

The last one isn’t super relevant to him, but he clicks on the first one immediately, the page opening up to a whole list of common questions and issues surrounding PTSD. He goes through it, almost in awe, amazed that so much information could be available to him so easily. It’s immediately obvious to him that his symptoms match up with what the app is describing, and he makes his way down the list with a growing thirst for knowledge.

One of the tabs catches his eye and his heart skips a beat at the sight. _What do I do if I get triggered?_ it reads, and he stares at it, trying to understand. He… He narrows his eyes. He'd thought that his trigger words were a sort of, unique phenomenon, other people don’t… have those, right?

He clicks on the tab and lets it open up, reading over the few paragraphs several times before he understands. It’s not talking about trigger _words_ , more like… trigger things. Things that cause a PTSD reaction. He relaxes at this realisation, and reads over the paragraphs again in this new light.

 _Try the RID tool_ it says,

  * _Relax_
  * _Identify_
  * _Decide_



It then goes on to explain each step, and Bucky can’t help thinking that these tools might help him a little bit, should he get a flashback again like the one he’d had in Stark’s lab. That had probably happened because talking about his arm had… triggered… his painful memories with Hydra, but if he were able to work _past_ that, then maybe he wouldn’t have so much trouble.

He nods and stores away the RID tool in the back of his mind, before moving on to look through the rest of the app. He takes a 20 question PTSD assessment in the ‘Track Symptoms’ section of the app, and it’s a little shocking how many of the questions he answers “extremely” or “quite a bit”.

In a way it’s kind of… nice though, to have the evidence of it in front of him. In a way it’s like… it’s like, in knowing this information, he now knows that he’s not just trying to fight off being the Asset, he also has this _other_ stuff going on that sort of helps explain why he might have trouble being Bucky all the time. It’s not _just_ his programming, it’s something else too.

He’s not sure if he would have PTSD if it weren’t for Hydra… but Steve has PTSD too, and something about that… is sort of comforting in a way.

After the assessment, he moves on to the ‘Manage Symptoms’ tool. He finds that it is separated into “Symptoms”, such as ‘Reminded of trauma’, ‘Disconnected from people’, and ‘Unable to sleep’, as well as tools for each. There is a whole list of tools and he clicks through a few of them, noting how some of them are similar to things Steve had had him do in order to calm down.

He looks through a few more things on the app, but there is such a large range of support and different resources that he can’t look at them all in detail. By the end of it though, he has to admit that he feels a little more confident with the idea of trying to navigate this life he’s found himself. It might be difficult trying to deal with the combination of Hydra and PTSD and trying to figure himself out, but he thinks it might be a little bit easier with this.

 _Probably why Steve told me to go to Sam_ , he thinks wryly as he puts his phone away and gets up to start figuring something out for supper. _Obviously Steve has been through a similar process._ Given how stubborn Steve is though, he wouldn’t be surprised to learn if Steve’s introduction into modern psychology had taken some time.

He wonders how good Steve is at being a good handler for himself.

oOo

It was probably a good thing that he’d managed to work up the courage to talk to Sam, because the Avengers end up getting called on a mission soon afterwards. “Natasha estimates we’ll be gone about a week,” Steve tells him, his utility belt spread out on the kitchen counter in front of him as he carefully sorts out what needs to be packed.

“France has agreed to let us come in and take out a few Hydra bases they’ve uncovered,” Steve continues as Bucky pointedly nudges an extra triangle bandage in his direction. He might not be able to come on the mission, but he can make sure that Steve’s first aid kit is fully stocked. Steve rolls his eyes at him, but takes the bandage anyways. “There’s also been some more rumours about sightings of Rumlow,” he says as he packs away the bandage. “So we’ll check that out as well.”

Bucky nods and swallows. The news that Rumlow may or may not have survived the fall of Hydra in DC is disconcerting. He does not have fond memories of Rumlow, and if Rumlow is really alive, then he can only be up to no good.

His hands clench under the countertop and he breathes in slowly, trying to centre himself. No one had asked him if he wanted to come on this mission, and he hadn’t asked to come along. He can still remember his last conversation he’d had with Steve about this. Granted, he’d been the Asset then and hadn’t understood why Steve hadn’t wanted to send him out into the field. Obviously Steve had wanted to give him the chance to heal and figure out that he is, you know, a _person_ , but he can’t help thinking about what Steve had told him. 

_I think that once you understand why I don’t want you going now, then you’ll be able to go on missions. If you want._

At the time, he’d taken those words as a kind of mystery mission, something he had to figure out before he could be cleared… and he supposes that might still be true, in a way. If figuring out that he is Bucky had been the _only_ thing he needed to do to be allowed to go on missions, then Steve would have suggested that he come along on this one. But he hadn’t, and Bucky still isn’t exactly sure why.

He also isn’t exactly sure if he actually _wants_ Steve to ask him to come on the mission. Yes, he hates Hydra, and yes, he thinks they should be destroyed… but he hasn’t been in combat since figuring out he’s Bucky. He’s been fighting for _years_ as the Asset… and he isn’t sure if he remembers how to fight as _Bucky_.

If going on missions accidentally sends him into a flashback of being the Asset…

Well, Steve would probably be able to control him, because he would think of him as his handler again, but… But he’d rather not risk the possibility. If he were ever to go on any missions, he would need to make sure he could handle that sort of thing first, train a bit more with the team and get comfortable with himself, before he tried anything.

All of which boils down into the fact that Steve and the Avengers are going off on a mission and he will be left alone in the Tower. 

He’d been left behind on missions before, except last time Stark had been there. This time, everyone is leaving, and he really will be completely alone. The idea feels a little strange, especially since it is also the first time he will be alone since he’d found out that he is a person. When he was left alone as the Asset, he’d had some sense of a set of _rules_ that he was supposed to follow, guiding principles to adhere to while his handler was gone. But now, he doesn’t have a handler, and he doesn’t really have the rules either.

 _Well,_ he thinks suddenly, as Steve finishes packing his utility belt. _That isn’t exactly true. This time_ I’m _my handler, and_ I _make the rules._

Somehow, that helps him feel a little less adrift at the idea of being alone. Just because he doesn’t have a handler doesn’t mean he’s anchorless. Even without rules… there are still Rules. Technically now he can do anything… but so can everyone else, so people live by unwritten rules and _don’t_ do everything, at least, most of the time.

 _And that,_ a little sarcastic voice pipes up in the back of his head, _is what we call a society_. He blinks at the thought, his mouth quirking up a little at the tone as he gets up from the counter to follow Steve to the common room. Apparently he has a sarcastic streak. Who knew?

The sarcastic corner of his head ‘hmphs’ at him, and informs him that if he had been paying attention to his flashbacks, then he probably would have noticed it by now.

It has a point, he has to admit, now that he thinks about it. In his memories, he and Steve had seemed to enjoy snarking at each other before. He’s not exactly sure how well he’s doing at that now… but considering how sarcasm had probably been _strongly_ discouraged in the Asset… any spark of wittiness at this point is probably a miracle.

He doesn’t have much longer to think about it though, because he and Steve arrive in the common room where the rest of the Avengers are waiting. They aren’t in their uniforms at the moment. Those are in the process of being packed, because, as Steve explains, since their mission is official, they have to go through some red tape in France before they can get started on anything.

The rest of their supplies is already mostly on the quinjet, and Bucky helps them haul the last of it out – Clint muttering the whole time, because apparently if this mission goes overtime by only a few days, he will miss Halloween, and apparently he has some important plans for the day. The other Avengers don’t seem overly concerned though, and Bucky finds his mouth twitching up as he steps back to let them pile inside the jet.

“Have fun,” he tells them, and his voice drops – almost without his permission – into a low drawl, letting them know exactly how much ‘fun’ he thinks hunting for Hydra will be.

Steve huffs at that and rolls his eyes at him, making Bucky smirk and feel rather proud of himself—and completely forget about how empty the Tower will be once the Avengers leave until _after_ they have all said their goodbyes, and the quinjet begins to lift off the tarmac.

He steps back inside to avoid the dust and watches it go, an unidentifiable emotion swimming around in his stomach, the goal of which seems to be to make him feel about twelve different things all at once. An emotion like that isn’t exactly _helpful_ , and he turns away grumpily, his eyes sweeping over the common room in front of him in an effort to find something to distract himself with.

He ends up making his way down to Stark’s labs. He’d asked JARVIS first of course, but right now the Tower feels much too empty and Stark _had_ said he should visit his bots more, so that is what he does.

As usual, DUM-E and U are both thrilled to see him (and he is a little relieved they don’t seem to either care about, or remember his flashback incident), and they seem particularly pleased that he has free time now and they can tow him around and show off their lab.

JARVIS narrates for them, his voice tinged with distinct amusement the whole time, and it’s probably a good thing he does, because otherwise Bucky would have been completely lost at most of the things he’s shown.

Important landmarks to DUM-E and U consist of things like an oil stain from the time U had dropped a can all over Stark, or a tire skid from the time DUM-E had stolen Bruce’s mug and engaged in a game of keep-away for the better part of 15 minutes. (He doesn’t have a hard time understanding the picture Steve had drawn for Stark though, the drawing displayed proudly on the wall.)

The robots’ antics are entirely endearing, and he finds himself grinning by the end of it, the strange emotion from before nearly forgotten as he finally leaves them and heads back up to his room for supper.

After supper he goes to his room and carefully plugs in his phone to charge (he’d forgotten to do that once and it hadn’t gone well) before preparing to sleep in his _own bed_ (the concept is still a little strange, but it _is_ at least comfortable), and then… he dreams.

_“We need to take out the base down there,” Steve tells him, and they’re standing on a ridge, Steve in his war uniform and he in his blue Commandos one, his gun held loosely in his hands, the rest of the Commandos clustered around them as Steve outlines their strategy._

_“If we start with explosives around the perimeter,” he continues, and Bucky follows his gaze down the rocky ridge, to the base below. “Then we should be able to catch them off guard and raid the base no problem.”_

_He can feel all the other Commandos nod at that, but his eyes stay fastened down below the ridge, his gaze darting about as he tries to figure out what base Steve is targeting. It… he can’t see a base at all. It looks like a village down there, a cluster of houses poking up from the forest around them. As he watches, a group of children dart out into the street. They are too far away for him to hear them, but he can see the leading one kick some kind of ball in front of them._

_“Bucky,” his eyes jump back to Steve and the pack his friend is now holding out to him. “I need you to go down and set the explosives. We’ll spread out and rush in once you set them off.”_

_His mouth opens soundlessly, and he looks back towards the village. The kids are still busy with their ball and the sound of their laughter drifts up to him on the wind. He swallows and looks back at Steve, his stomach a pile of knots. “But…” He swallows again. “But there’s_ kids _down there, Steve.”_

 _He can_ feel _the heavy silence that settles over them as everyone turns to stare at him. He darts his eyes over them and glances back at the village. Steve had said they need to raid the base, but he doesn’t_ see _the base, it’s just a village. A civilian target._

_“Bucky.” He almost flinches at the coldness in Steve’s voice, and when he looks over, his friend’s face has gone dark. He thrusts the pack at him again, his eyes sharp. “Bucky. Go set the explosives.”_

_His mouth is dry, and he stumbles back a step, his hands tightening slightly around his gun. “But… there’s…_ kids _down there,” he says again, as if that will somehow wake Steve up to the persistent_ wrongness _of all of this._

 _The skin on the back of his neck crawls as the Commandos begin throwing him dirty looks, their eyes narrowed as they glare at him. And that’s—_ wrong, _that’s not how it’s supposed to go. The Commandos don’t—_

_“What’s wrong with him?” he hears one of them ask, and he’s not sure which one, because something seems to be wrong with their voice, the sound of it twisting in and out between two different people. He can’t tell for sure who the other voice belongs to, but he shivers at the sound. “Is he malfunctioning?”_

_His breath stutters at the question, and he watches, frozen, as Steve clenches his jaw and sets down the pack, stepping menacingly towards him, his hands curling into fists by his side. “You will do as you’re told,” he says, his voice hard and brittle as ice._

_Bucky darts his eyes desperately between Steve and the village below. The kids are still there. It’s not a base, it’s not a target. There are_ kids down there. _He looks back at Steve and shakes his head, his hair swinging around his face as he clutches his gun to himself, his eyes wide._

_Steve’s face clouds over at his defiance, and his eyes flash as he steps forward, his teeth clenched in fury. Bucky’s heart stalls in his chest as Steve’s hand comes up, sharp and solid before it swings towards his face, and Bucky can’t even move, can’t even breathe as he watches the blow come because Steve wouldn’t— Steve would never—_

He wakes up before the hit lands, and finds his jaw aching with how tight he’d been clenching it, his breath coming in thin, sharp gasps between his teeth. He sucks in a breath and unglues his teeth, his hands clutching onto his blankets as he presses his face into his pillow, trying to calm down.

His brain flashes back to Steve’s face in the moment before he’d hit him, and he flinches, his breath stuttering. _It’s not real_ , he reminds himself firmly, breathing in through his nose. _Steve would never._

But that’s part of the horribleness of it, because in the dream he had known that too, but Steve and the Commandos had been busy acting like Hydra and his handlers and that _hadn’t been supposed to happen._

He pushes himself up from the bed because his chest hurts and he doesn’t think he can stand laying down any longer. He sits for a moment on the edge of the mattress, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes as he tries to steady his breathing.

A buzzing cuts into his concentration and he darts his head up, as, on his bedside table, his phone lights up with a text. He swallows and breathes in again, his hands feeling rather shaky as he reaches over for the device. The white light makes him squint as he turns it on, but he can see now that the text had been sent from Steve.

He clicks on it, and the message expands to show a half-awake and rather disgruntled looking Clint, sitting dully over a bowl of cereal with a coffee cup in front of him. _Morning here,_ Steve’s text reads. _Clint is not really appreciating the time change._

Despite the lingering effects from the nightmare, Bucky finds himself smiling at the text, and he huffs out a small breath, shaking his head. He doesn’t reply to it, because he’s sure Steve expects him to be asleep right now, but the message does help him relax a little.

He doesn’t feel like going back to sleep just yet though, so he gets up, taking his phone with him as he heads out to his kitchen. He still feels a bit shaky, so he sets down his phone and begins the familiar ritual of making a cup of tea. That is one thing he’d been very careful to order when he’d first gotten his room. He’s not exactly sure where Steve had picked up the habit of drinking tea, but it seems to be a pretty consistent coping mechanism between the two of them.

The thought of coping mechanisms makes him remember the app that Sam had helped him download, and while he waits for his water to boil he grabs his phone again, suddenly curious to see whether the app has any tips for waking up from nightmares.

It does, and he suddenly feels a bit better, knowing there is a recommended protocol for dealing with these things. _On waking up, turn the light on, take a few deep breaths,_ it reads. _Notice the sights, sounds and smells around you._

Well, the light is already on, but he works through the sights and sounds and smells of his kitchen before working his way through the rest of the list. _Avoid sleep deprivation,_ it says. _Distract yourself for 5 to 10 minutes after you wake up._

He breathes out fully and finishes preparing his tea, sipping at it slowly as he glances through some of the other features of the app, figuring that it is a good a distraction as any. There is a tab in the ‘Managing Symptoms’ section for if he has trouble falling back to sleep, but that isn’t the thing that catches his attention.

Instead his finger drifts up to the ‘Disconnected from People’ option. It asks him to rate his ‘distress’ on a scale of 0 to 10, and he dithers over it for a moment before entering a 6. Even though the app explains the distress meter fairly well, he still feels slightly awkward admitting the symptom. But this whole day _had_ started off with the Tower feeling _supremely_ empty, so he thinks it’s fair to say he’s on that scale somewhere.

He hits the ‘Next’ button and the screen switches to a suggested tool. **Visit a family member** , it reads. _Talking to another person about your problems, or listening to someone else’s problems for a while, can help improve your mood or change the way you think._

He almost laughs at that, because the whole _purpose_ of this is so that he can visit the last of his family, and he isn’t _ready_ yet— He stops, and thinks back to what he’d thought when Sam had told him he should be a good handler to himself.

_A good handler would probably let him visit his sister. A good handler wouldn’t make him wait._

Is there a reason now, to wait? His trigger words are gone, the dangerous ones at least, and he’s working on dealing with his PTSD so… so does he have a reason not to go visit his sister? Or is he just scared?

He swallows and stares down at his phone, the suggestion shining up at him innocently. He presses his lips together and thinks of the most important question. Does he _want_ to visit his sister?

He blinks and knows immediately. Yes, he does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Bucky was able to talk to Sam about his PTSD. I wanted to show a little bit of a different journey for him than Steve, so I went with the note and the app. A note is a really good tool if you have trouble asking for help, and I based Bucky’s app off of a real PTSD Coach app. It’s really good and free to download. 
> 
> I think Bucky still has a ways to go before he would be comfortable talking to a therapist, but he at least has some tools now, and can feel more comfortable reconciling his ‘Bucky’ and ‘Asset’ self.
> 
> This nightmare is one of my favourite ones for him. It just hits really hard.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky works on visiting his sister.

The actual concrete decision to visit his sister sits under his skin like a buzzing energy, and he spends the week the Avengers are away in France darting through seemingly last-minute preparations while he waits. He chews his way through everything Sam’s app has to offer, and he has JARVIS order a safe for his weapons (and he pays for it with _his own_ bank account), because somehow that seems an important step to take before he actually visits Hannah.

The safe comes by the end of the week, and he places it next to his desk in his room, sorting and storing his various weapons carefully inside, and feeling a little bit proud about that. He doesn’t need to be constantly armed here in the Tower, because he’s safe, and he can afford to lock his weapons away.

The safe is only a minor distraction from his current plan though, and he finds himself nearly vibrating with anticipation and nerves by the time the Avengers finally return from their mission. He helps them unload the quinjet once it touches down, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from bursting as he listens to them give him the barebones of the mission.

Yes the mission had gone well. Yes Hydra had been there. Yes they had rooted them out. No they hadn’t found Rumlow. No they aren’t sure if it’s him or not.

He knows he should probably be more worried about the whole Rumlow thing, but he finds he can hardly focus on it as he waits to finally be alone with Steve so that he can tell him what he wants. The opportunity arises once all the equipment is put away and he and Steve take the elevator back down to their rooms.

Steve is tired, he can see that as they step out of the lift, but he absolutely _cannot_ wait until morning for this, so he speaks up before Steve can open the door to his room and head inside.

“I want to visit Hannah,” he blurts, his hands clenching on the fabric of his pants as he watches Steve. His heart pounds in his chest as he waits, and he’s certain Steve can hear it when he turns to him, a surprised look on his face.

“Oh.” He blinks a few times before his eyes brighten. “That’s great!” A grin splits his face, his after-mission exhaustion seemingly put on hold for the moment. “We can get working on that right away. Well—” He huffs out a breath and shrugs his shoulder, looking a little rueful for a second. “Well, probably actually _tomorrow,_ ” he says, before looking up at Bucky as if that is somehow a major inconvenience.

“No that’s fine,” Bucky rushes to reassure, his head suddenly light at the fact that he’d actually managed to start the process. “Yeah,” he babbles. “Tomorrow’s good.”

Steve grins at him and Bucky flushes and grins right back, his chest practically bursting with a combination of excitement and amazement that he might _actually_ visit Hannah soon. Of course, he doesn’t exactly know what that will all entail, but the details can wait for tomorrow, today he’d actually _asked_.

oOo

“Does Hannah know I’m alive?” That’s the first question he asks once he and Steve finally manage to sit down the next day to start planning for his upcoming visit. They are in the common room, but the other Avengers aren’t around. He’s not sure where most of them are, although he knows Stark is off somewhere planning his company’s Halloween party for the children of SI employees. Clint is off somewhere for Halloween too – the mission had not gone overtime – but apparently his Halloween plans are not in the Tower.

Ordinarily Halloween – and Clint’s disappearance, the latest of many – might be interesting to him, but right now, he can only focus on one thing, and that is figuring out how to visit his sister.

“I don’t think so,” Steve answers him, tilting his head. “I don’t think your survival is known to the public, so I doubt she knows.”

Bucky bites his lip and looks down. “I… can’t just show up at her door then,” he says, (although he doubts he would ever do that, the very thought makes him nervous). “How am I supposed to contact her without giving her a shock?” He pauses to think for a moment and presses his lips together. “Also… I feel like she should know about my memory before I actually visit her.”

Steve hums in response and looks thoughtful for a moment. “You’re probably right,” he says. “We probably want to be sensitive about this, it _is_ a pretty big reveal.” He pauses for a moment, before looking up at him. “I wonder if _I_ could visit her first,” he says, rubbing his chin. “I could explain to her what happened and a little of what to expect.”

Bucky nods immediately, the idea a relief. “Yeah,” he says, his shoulders relaxing. “And then you can make sure she wants to see me.”

Steve huffs at that and throws him a quick glare. “Of course she will,” he says determinedly, before softening slightly. “It’s okay to be nervous though.” He flashes him a crooked smile. “I mean, _I’m_ a little nervous. I haven’t visited her yet, so… we’ll see how that goes.”

Bucky blinks a little at him in surprise. “You haven’t?” he asks.

Steve’s eyes glance away, and he shrugs a little awkwardly. “I wasn’t sure if I should,” he admits after a moment, still not meeting Bucky’s eyes, his hands clasped in his lap. “It’d been seventy years for her, you know… and she was sixteen when I left…” He rolls his shoulders. “And I was really just her brother’s friend…”

Bucky thinks back to how Steve had called the Barneses family, and he throws his own scowl at Steve. “I have a feeling that she’ll disagree with that sentiment,” he says, and Steve laughs, looking back at him.

“Yeah well…” He shrugs again. “I think I’m just bad at reaching out to people in general, Tony had to be the one to finally get me to see Peggy the first time.”

Bucky blinks as he’s reminded of Peggy, another person they had known that is apparently still alive, and, as he watches Steve, he can’t help feeling that his friend has the same quiet fear that _he_ has, the one that nags at him every time he thinks about visiting his sister.

The world had changed so much, _he_ had changed so much… and visiting people from the past amplifies that, for better or for worse.

oOo

Steve waits until after Halloween to visit Hannah, and once he leaves, Bucky finds himself a bundle of nerves back in the Tower. He works his way through some of the ‘Anxious/Worried’ tools in the PTSD Coach app in an effort to keep calm, but he still finds his mind spinning.

What if he doesn’t remember enough of Hannah? What if she doesn’t want to see him? What if she does, but then becomes upset by what he’s become?

He doesn’t really have a lot of answers for these questions, although he does toy a little with the idea of watching some more of his memories of Hannah with the BARF tech. The thought stresses him out though, because if he did, he would have no idea where to start and would have no idea if he were watching the _right_ memories, the important ones.

And… he has to admit, there _is_ a difference between watching a memory, and, well, _remembering_ it.

But that doesn’t stop the questions spinning around in his head. Are the memories he has enough? What if he’s forgetting something _really important?_ How will he know?

He _feels_ like he has a pretty good grasp on the major elements of his life. He _had_ read the Howling Commandos book after all, (and a quiet voice in the back of his head insists that apparently _Peggy_ can’t remember things all the time, and people still want to visit _her_.) If people like Peggy, even though she can’t remember, then… his memory issues could be treated similar, right?

He’s waiting for Steve in the common room once he gets back, and he doesn’t try to wait or hold back when he steps out of the elevator. “Did you see her?” he asks, stepping towards him. “Is she okay? Did you tell her? Does she want to see me?”

Steve smiles at his questions and lets out a little laugh. “Yes,” he says, still smiling as he leads them over to the couches. “I did see her. I told her about you.” He looks up at him, his eyes bright. “She’s very insistent on seeing you.”

Bucky’s breath catches as he settles down on the couch next to Steve. “She is?” he says, his voice small. “She really— she really wants to?”

Steve reaches forward to grab his hand. “Yes, Bucky,” he says warmly, catching his eye. “She wants to get some things ready first, so she’s asked for you to come see her in two weeks.”

Bucky blinks. “Two weeks,” he says. He’s not sure what he had been expecting, but now he has an actual _day_ to look forward to. An actual day to go visit his sister. He swallows and finds his throat swollen with emotion, his vision going blurry.

He can still see the look of concern on Steve’s face though, and his friend leans towards him. “I know that might feel like a long time,” he says. “She'd see you sooner but she just wants to get—”

Bucky laughs and shakes his head, lifting his free hand up to wipe his eyes. “No,” he says. “No that’s fine. That’s great actually.” He lifts his head to grin at Steve. “I’m actually going to visit her. I’m actually—” He laughs again and Steve smiles.

He is actually going to visit Hannah. She wants to see him.

oOo

Two weeks is both too long and too short, and about one week into the wait, he comes to a pretty essential realisation.

“I don’t know how to visit people,” he blurts out, his hands pressing desperately onto the countertop as he sits across from Steve in his kitchen.

The thought had occurred to him once he had started trying to imagine what visiting Hannah might be like, and he had realised that he actually has very little experience dealing with people from outside the Tower. He’s interacted with very few civilians at all. Pepper a few times, Darcy once, a few people at the library… but not much else. He hasn’t even really been outside the Tower much, besides a few walks and trips. He really has _no idea_ what to expect when visiting Hannah.

Steve must be able to read some of all that in his tight, anxious expression, because he smiles softly. “I have an idea,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “Would you like to visit Peggy with me first? It could be kind of like a practice trip.”

Bucky blinks and pulls back a little. He hadn’t thought of that before, but he _had_ been wanting to visit Peggy at some point… and somehow visiting her feels a little less intimidating than his upcoming visit with Hannah. If he can manage a visit to Peggy, then he’d probably be able to handle Hannah, right?

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “Yeah… yeah, let’s do that.”

Steve calls the carehome Peggy is staying at before they visit. “Because of her dementia, she has better days than others,” he explains as they drive out to DC a few days later. “I wanted to make sure we caught her on a good day.”

Bucky supposes it’s lucky that they managed to have a good day to see Peggy before his visit to Hannah, and he tries to be grateful for that as he and Steve finally arrive at their destination and sign in at the front desk. He’s mostly nervous though, and he’s certain that if it could, his metal hand would be sweaty on the pen as he signs.

As it is, his right hand has to take over in that department, and he wipes it on his pants nervously as he and Steve take the elevator up to Peggy’s room. Steve leads them confidently down the hall from the elevator and they soon stop in front of a wooden door. “I’m thinking you should just wait in the entryway while I introduce you,” Steve says as he raises his hand to knock. “I’ll give her a bit of an explanation before you come in.”

Bucky swallows and nods, following Steve inside as a voice calls for them to enter. He stops to wait just inside the doorway and breathes in while Steve continues onwards. The room itself doesn’t seem very big inside. From the entryway he can see the kitchen and what looks like the doorway to a bedroom, but his view is cut off from the living room that Steve heads towards.

He can still hear Steve though as he sits down and greets the woman that had called to them, and Bucky swallows again as he listens in on their conversation.

“Hey Peggy,” Steve says, and Bucky can hear the warm affection in his voice. That sound alone relaxes him slightly, and he listens as they make small conversation for a few moments before Steve gets around to the business at hand.

“I want you to meet someone,” he says quietly. “I… I found someone.” He pauses for a second and breathes in. “You remember Bucky.” It's a statement and a question, and Peggy must nod because Steve continues softly. “I found out… he wasn’t killed back in the war. He was captured by Hydra.” He shifts. “I found him a few months ago.”

He hears Peggy gasp and Steve continues to describe very briefly his captivity and unreliable memory. “He's here now though,” he says. “He’s waiting by the door if you want to see him.”

He hears movement and than Peggy’s voice. “Well we can’t just make him wait, now can we.” Her voice is determined, and, although it’s a little thinner with age, it is still reminiscent of the determined woman that he can almost remember. Steve laughs and Bucky takes that as his cue to come out, his stomach swooping as he edges forward and finally steps into the living room.

It’s a comfortable room, a window in the corner letting light onto a wall of pictures and the overstuffed couch and easy chair that Steve and Peggy have occupied. Peggy herself is in the chair, a quilted blanket around her legs, her eyes bright as she watches him walk in.

She’s older, and he thinks suddenly that it is probably a good thing that he had visited her before Hannah. It makes sense, of course, that she had aged, but he finds somehow that he hadn’t been expecting it — and now that he can see her, he understands that Hannah too, will be changed from what he can remember of her.

“It really is you,” Peggy breathes, her eyes looking a little glassy as he comes around the couch to sit next to Steve. He smiles weakly at her, still unsure of himself. He can’t remember much of Peggy. He has a few memories of her, and the book had spoken of her sometimes, but he still hardly knows her.

“Your hair is longer,” Peggy tells him after a moment as she blinks her eyes dry and offers him a smile.

He finds himself smiling back. “Yeah,” he says, bringing his hand up to feel his hair. “I don’t mind it like this.”

Peggy’s smile widens at that and she leans forward to engage him in a conversation. It isn’t as awkward as he’d been expecting. Peggy seems skilled at making people at ease, and over the next hour she tells him all about her own life, her husband, and her children, seeming content to keep the conversation mostly about her for the meantime. A few times, she becomes muddled on the smaller details of a story, but Steve seems to already know them well enough, and he helps her along when she gets stuck.

“You had a good life,” Bucky comments afterwards, looking towards the wall of pictures, his eyes glancing over one of Peggy standing in front of the SHIELD logo, her face filled with pride.

“Yes,” Peggy says, sitting back, her eyes glancing over him for a moment. After a second, she turns to Steve and lifts her chin. “I have something to say to Bucky now,” she tells him, her voice leaving no room for argument. “I’m sure you can make yourself busy finding biscuits for us in the kitchen.”

Steve blinks for a moment and glances at Bucky, his mouth twitching upward for a second before he looks back at Peggy. “Yes ma’am,” he tells her as he pushes himself up from the couch. He flashes Bucky a smile, which he supposes is intended to be comforting, but Bucky still can’t help looking back over at Peggy with an air of trepidation once Steve disappears off to the kitchen.

Peggy smiles at him, but it seems to be tinged with sadness now, something like regret in her eyes. “I’m glad to see you, Bucky,” she says softly, her hands in her lap. He swallows and nods at her, not quite sure where the conversation is heading. Peggy smiles another sad smile at him, and squeezes her hands together. “Actually,” she says, “there’s something I’ve always wished I could tell you.”

He leans forward slightly, glancing over her. “There is?” he asks, and Peggy nods, her eyes flicking down before darting back up again.

“I’ve always wished I could apologize,” she says quietly, her eyes on him. He blinks a little in surprise at her, and Peggy shifts slightly in her chair. “I don’t know if you remember,” she says. “But a long time ago, you once asked me to look after Steve if you died.”

His eyes widen, and his throat suddenly goes dry. “I remember,” he rasps out, his mind flashing back to the conversation he had had with Peggy in her tent.

Peggy’s eyes are bright when she looks at him. “I tried,” she says, blinking away a few tears. “I tried, but I think I was too late. I could see it happening, just like you said.” Bucky opens his mouth to speak, but Peggy continues. “I was on the line with him just before he died,” she says, rubbing a thumb over her clasped fingers. “I tried, but I could hear it in his voice. It was too late.” She reaches up to wipe her eyes and gives him a watery smile. “I’d thought we’d lost him forever, just like you,” she says. “But now here you both are, together again.”

Bucky swallows and thinks back to when Steve had told him that Peggy had been on the radio with him on the plane. He can’t imagine how difficult that must have been for her. “Yeah, well.” He clears his throat. “I already chewed Steve out for that.” He offers Peggy a crooked smile. “It all worked out in the end,” he says. “I’m glad you were there for him.”

Peggy laughs softly at that and wipes her eyes again, before finally calling Steve back into the living room. Steve has indeed found cookies for them, but there’s a red tinge to the back of his neck that lets Bucky know that he had heard their conversation. He isn’t surprised, since if Steve can hear heartbeats, then he can be sure to overhear them in such a small apartment.

He doesn’t say anything about it though, and neither does Steve, even after they leave. He does hope though, that the conversation had had an impact on his friend. He is 100% serious in the demand that Steve never pull a stunt like that ever again. And he hopes Steve realises that.

oOo

The visit to Peggy proves to him that he _can_ reconnect with people from his past, and that he _can_ interact with regular people, but he is still nervous when the day to visit his sister arrives. He spends the entire ride upstate with Steve feeling mildly nauseous, his mind darting through everything he can remember about his sister.

Why hadn’t he spent more time looking her up? He should have tried to remember her more — he should’ve have used the BARF tech, even if that isn’t exactly remembering. It would still be _better,_ right? He would at least _know_ things. He _should_ know things about Hannah. She deserves a brother who can at least remember things about her. Does he even know her _birthday?_

 _December 2 nd, _he reminds himself firmly. That had been in the book. He _does_ know things about Hannah, and he’s certain he will continue to remember things about her. And, anyways, Hannah knows about his memory, and she still wants to see him. So there.

He tries to keep that in mind as Steve pulls up in front of Hannah’s house, the yellow building sitting snuggly in a neat row of houses on a quiet street. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” Steve asks, turning towards him once they’ve stopped, his eyes dropping to Bucky’s chest for a moment before raising to his face.

Bucky is certain that Steve can hear his heart beat fast against his chest, but he shakes his head. “No,” he says, swallowing to try to make his voice steadier. “No, I want to do this myself.” He actually almost smiles as the words leave his mouth, because almost every memory he has of Hannah, has her saying something similar.

Beside him, Steve nods and gives him an encouraging smile. “Text me when you’re finished,” he says, tapping his pocket where his phone sits. “I’ll come get you then.”

Bucky nods and takes in one more breath before squaring his shoulders and opening his side door, swinging himself out of the car. It’s mid-November now, so the grass is brittle and dead as he walks up to the house, and he tugs his jacket closer around himself as he climbs the steps.

He knows Steve is watching him as he raises his hand to knock at the door, and he breathes in again, trying to calm his stomach. His heart pounds relentlessly in his chest and he feels slightly lightheaded as he waits, his right hand sweaty and cold.

He hears the steps as they approach the door and his breath stalls, his eyes wide as the door swings open in front of him. He… thinks he might actually forget to breathe as he stands frozen on the doorstep for a few moments, simply taking her in.

She's older now, like he knew she would be, but her face is somehow still the same from his memories, the lines simply more defined. Her hair is short now, and white, and she’s dressed in slacks and a blouse, something he’s never seen her in before. His eyes trail over her frame and he notices that she’s leaning on a cane, the skin of her hand thin and wrinkled with age.

In front of him, her breath stutters and he darts his gaze up to her face. Her eyes are wide as she stares at him and a hand climbs up to cover her mouth. “It really is you,” she breathes, and her voice brings sudden tears to his eyes.

“Hi— hi Hannah,” he says, his voice shaky and just barely managing to make it past the lump in his throat.

Hannah lets out a breathy, watery laugh and steps back, leaning on her cane as she gestures for him to come into the house. Her eyes flick over him as he steps inside, like she can’t quite believe he’s real, and he can feel her gaze linger for a few moments on the metal of his left hand as he turns to close the door.

She’s smiling when he looks back at her and the sight of it makes something giddy rise up in his chest. “It’s good to see you,” he says quietly, and Hannah’s smile grows wider.

“Come in! Come inside,” she says, turning away to lead him into the living room just off from the entryway. Further into the house he can see a kitchen and some stairs leading upwards, but Hannah directs him to a brown sofa nestled cozily in the middle of the living room.

His eyes skate over the room as he sits, and he can’t help marveling at how comfortable it seems. Besides the couch, there is an armchair by the window, with a basket of knitting and a TV that is much smaller than anything he’s seen before sitting next to it. The living room itself seems mostly filled with bookshelves, a few well cared for plants sitting next to volumes and binders that line the walls.

He glances over them and Hannah seems to notice his interest. “It’s my collection,” she tells him proudly as she sits down next to him on the couch. “My eyesight is a little weak these days but…” She gestures to the coffee table in front of them, and on top of it sits a cloth-bound binder, similar to some of the ones on the shelves. “I still have this.”

He blinks and looks from the book to her. “What is it?” he asks, not quite willing to reach for the binder without her permission. He is glad though, that they seem to have been able to find something to talk about easily. Even with his trip to Peggy, he had been a little nervous about the idea of holding a conversation with someone he can barely remember.

Hannah seems to have planned for this though, because she smiles at his question and leans to pick up the binder. “I wanted to show you this,” she says quietly, looking up at him. “I…” She strokes the cover for a moment and swallows. “Steve told me… that you don’t remember a lot. That Hydra wiped your memory.”

He nods mutely and Hannah breathes in. “Well, you’re lucky,” she says, turning the binder so that they can both see. “This, is a photo album. We… we didn’t have a lot of pictures, but,” she gestures at the other binders on the shelf across from them. “I have them all.”

His mouth drops open as he realises what she is saying, and he leans towards the book, his heart pounding. The binders have— they have pictures of his family, pictures from _before_. He glances between the book and Hannah, his eyes wide. “Can I…” His hand drifts towards the book without conscious thought and Hannah smiles.

“I have a whole collection,” she tells him as she opens the album, leaning towards him as she shows him the first page. “This one starts off mostly about Ma and Pa…”

The first picture is a wedding photograph. It’s old, and black and white, but he can still make out the smiling faces of his… of his parents. He watches mutely as Hannah continues to turn the pages, chatting quietly as they flip through letters and newspaper clippings and other small mementos, pictures showing up here and there, carefully preserved on the pages.

“Here’s you,” Hannah says, with a smile, pointing to a small dark-haired baby on a white background. It really _is_ him, he can tell, and he can’t help the feeling of awe that he has at the sight of it. It’s one thing to _know_ he was born, but quite another thing to _see_ it.

The mood of the book changes slightly after he is born, because his father goes off to war, and the following pages are filled with the letters between his parents and news clippings from the war.

“So that’s the end of that one,” Hannah says once they flip through the last page. She closes the book and pulls herself up using her cane, the binder clutched to her chest. “I have the rest over here.”

She makes her way over to the bookshelf and puts the binder away, pulling out a new one to continue their exploration. He finds he loses track of time as they flip through the binders. Apparently their mother had been very keen on making and keeping these books, and Hannah had inherited them.

“I kept making them after she died too,” she says quietly as they look at a foggy picture of the family on a beach. “It felt like a good way to remember her.”

Bucky nods quietly, his eyes on his mother’s small, neat handwriting as she documents the history of each insert in the book. “We didn’t have a lot of pictures for a while,” Hannah continues. “But…” she flips to a pencil drawing of George Barnes stoking the fireplace. “We had Steve.” She grins at him. “He practiced a lot with us. I think we were really lucky that way.”

Steve’s drawings become more frequent and more skilled as time goes on, and Bucky can tell that some of the images had been drawn specifically as gifts. “I have a whole separate binder of just his sketches and things,” Hannah says, while they admire Steve’s depictions of the family at dinner. “I offered to give it to him when he stopped by, but he said I should keep them.”

They turn to a picture of Becca on her wedding day, and Bucky blinks. “Oh hey, I remember that,” he says in surprise. It may only be very _very_ vaguely, but he _does_ remember it, now that he knows what is happening. He can remember being happy, and proud, and trying not to cry—

Hannah grins, the wrinkles on her face moving with her. “Yeah,” she says, before her eyes dim slightly. “That was in 1941, right before we joined the war.” The book reflects that, because newspaper clippings and government announcements about the war begin to creep into the pages, and then—

“This was your draft letter,” Hannah says quietly, her hand brushing over the plastic protecting the yellowing paper. “I found it, when we were going through your stuff after— afterwards. I kept it, just to–” She shrugs, swallowing. “Well, at the time, I was trying to hold on to anything of yours.”

Bucky swallows, his eyes suddenly wet. He hadn’t thought a lot about what it would have been like for his family after he died. He hasn’t had time to think of it, but Hannah had lived with it for a long time.

Hannah strokes the letter again. “I remember when you got drafted,” she says softly. “You asked us not to tell Steve. You were worried about how he’d react.” She blinks and shoots him a small smile. “Considering how he didn’t start tryin’ to join the army until after you went off for training, it was probably a good idea to keep quiet about it.”

Bucky thinks back to how Steve had told him that he _had_ actually known about him being drafted, and he nods, his eyes narrowing. It’s looking like his past-self’s fears were not wholly unjustified.

“These are your letters,” Hannah says, and he darts his eyes to her, the page turning to show a series of letters written carefully, to make the most of the available space. “Ma kept all of your letters,” Hannah tells him, as they look them over. “Kept all of Steve’s letters too, once he joined.”

She laughs softly and shakes her head as she turns the page. “Was a real shock for us,” she says. “When we finally learned what had happened to Steve. He couldn’t tell us until he joined the Howling Commandos, you know. We knew he was in the army but not that he was Captain America.”

There are a few pictures now of old-timey Captain America propaganda, intercut occasionally by letters with pictures drawn by Steve. There are letters from the both of them now, interrupted every once and a while by photographs of the family back home, but it’s clear that the war and the war effort had taken up a lot of their life.

Hannah flips to a new page, and she stops suddenly, placing her hand over a faded telegram, silence falling over them for a moment as she thinks. “We got this… when you died,” she says finally, her voice breaking slightly. His gaze darts to her, and her eyes are glassy as she swallows. “We got Steve’s letter a little while afterwards, but by then…” She swallows again and lifts up a wrinkled hand to wipe her eyes. “By then Steve had died too.”

He stares at her, and she wipes her eyes again, offering him a watery smile. “Everyone was busy mourning Captain America,” she says. “But _we_ were mourning both you and Stevie…” She looks off to the side for a moment, her hand back on the binder. “They kept calling him a hero,” she says quietly. “But they didn’t even really _know_ him. And anyway, he was still dead.”

She sniffs and shakes her head, breathing in shakily. “Alice’s fiancé died too, a few months later. It…” She sucks in a breath. “It was a hard year for our family.”

His breath catches and he reaches instinctively for her hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, because he can’t think of anything else to say. “I can’t even… I can’t even imagine.”

Hannah’s hands squeeze his, metal one and all, and she smiles gently at him. “Well.” She breathes in and seems to settle herself, her eyes becoming a little brighter as she squares her shoulders. “Well. You’re here now. Even if you’re a little late.”

He actually barks out a laugh at that, and Hannah’s eyes glitter, her tears beginning to dry. They turn back to the binder after that, and Hannah starts introducing him to the family history he had missed. “This was Noah when he was a baby,” she says. “He’s Becca’s boy, you know. He’s got two children of his own now, and _they_ have children too. I’ve got them in some of my later albums.”

He can only stare as more and more of his family life unfolds. There are more photos now, since they had apparently finally been able to afford a proper camera, and they slowly take on more colour. His father and mother growing older, his sister having children, Hannah getting married, Alice graduating as a nurse— all of it, he’d missed— he’d missed _all_ of it.

Hannah is showing him a picture of a family reunion when the image goes blurry and his eyes fill with tears. The onslaught is too sudden for him to even _try_ to hide it, and before he knows it, tears are slipping down his face, muffled sobs catching in his throat as he sucks in a shuddery breath.

“Bucky, what’s wrong?” Hannah asks, her hands fluttering over him, obviously concerned. He shakes his head. He doesn’t know how to explain the pain at having missed everything. He’d mourned his missions with Hydra yes, but this is a whole new kind of tragedy. He’d missed _so much_ with his family, and then Hydra had erased the few memories he’d had of them from before…

It’s just— it’s not _fair_.

Hannah reaches gently around him to pull him into a hug, and she feels so small and old against him, and he cries harder because he’d hardly been able to know her at all. She'd been sixteen when he’d left, and now she is an old woman, and the only immediate member of his family he has left.

Hannah doesn’t say much while he cries himself out, merely rubbing his back and letting him lean against her shoulder. He begins to calm down eventually, and pulls back finally, wiping his face and breathing in shakily, trying to get himself under control.

Hannah pats his arm and gives him a reassuring smile. “There now,” she says. “Let me get you some water.” She makes to push herself up with her cane, and Bucky opens his mouth to protest.

“That’s okay,” he says quickly, not wanting to burden her. “I can—”

“Oh hush,” she says, waving her hand as she makes her way to the kitchen. “I can do it myself.”

He pauses at the familiar argument, and can’t help smiling a little as he watches her leave the room. She comes back soon enough with a glass of water, and he can feel himself settle as he takes a few sips, sniffing to clear his nose.

“You going to be okay?” Hannah asks, her gaze gentle as she sits next to him.

He nods. “Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I just—” His throat closes up slightly. “I just missed you.” He swallows at the sudden complete truth to those words, and Hannah gives him a small, sad smile.

“Me too,” she says quietly.

They continue to look through the albums for a while longer, before Bucky finally admits that it’s getting late, and that he should probably text Steve. Once he does, he gets Hannah’s number too, so they can keep in touch, before finally getting ready to leave. “Take some of the binders with you,” Hannah insists, grabbing the first few and putting them in his hands. “That way you can look at them closer. You can give them back when you visit me again.”

She gives him a Look that translates into an order to come by again, and he smiles. “I will,” he says softly.

She nods definitively at that and stands up, making her way over to the chair and knitting basket by the window. “One more thing,” she says, bending down laboriously to pick something out of the basket. She turns to him, a blue bundle clutch in her hand, her eyes flicking over him almost nervously. “I… made this for you. That’s what I was working on, after Steve told me you were still alive.”

She comes closer, and holds it out to him. It’s a knitted scarf, and he reaches for it dazedly, the wool soft against his fingers. “It’s getting to be winter now,” Hannah continues, shifting a little as she watches him. “I made it blue, cuz that used to be—”

“My favourite colour,” Bucky cuts in, clutching the scarf to his chest as he looks up at her. “It—” He lets out a shaky laugh. “It still is.”

Hannah’s smile is nearly blindingly bright. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Bucky finally got to visit his sister! And Peggy too, I really wanted him to visit her, because I felt they needed to have the conversation they did.
> 
> As for Bucky’s sister, I really feel for her and her family, having to lose everyone that they did in the war, and poor Bucky is dealing with having missed out on everything thanks to Hydra. But the visit went well :)
> 
> Also, last week was the one year anniversary of me posting the first chapter of “Alternatively”, and we only have five more chapters of this fic!


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky learns about the importance of choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers: Aww, your story is almost over :(
> 
> Me: you fool. you absolute buffoon.  
> Bold of you to assume that I can stop myself from writing this story. this was supposed to be 20 chapters, now it is 40. I am a slave to the words. they are coming,,,, there will be a third part.

The scarf is wrapped around his neck, and the pile of binders sit on his lap as Steve drives them home. The ride is mostly silent, and Steve lets it stay that way, giving Bucky a chance to think over his visit. It had gone immeasurably better than he had been expecting. He hadn’t really known what to expect to be honest, mostly he'd just been glad that Hannah had wanted to see him at _all_ , and she—

She had given him so much. He’d been worried he wouldn’t be Bucky enough for her, but she had managed to make him so comfortable. It probably helped that Steve had talked to her first, but she hadn’t even seemed to be bothered by his arm.

He's certain that as their visits continue, Hannah will want to know more about him, and that he will have to share a little with her, but for now, she had been content to give him back a little of the life he had lost.

He blinks, and his eyes are wet as he stares out the window. He clutches the binders a little closer to himself.

oOo

He stores the binders reverently in his room, and goes through them thoroughly over the next few days, taking the time to read the letters saved inside, and read the captions for the few precious photos. He doesn’t get a lot of flashbacks while reading the albums, but… they _do_ seem to be doing something. Instead of flashbacks, he will often read something and then just… feel like he already knew it, like deja-vu.

He still hopes to be able to actually _remember_ more, of course, but he keeps careful track of his progress in his journals as he goes through the albums Hannah had given him. Most of them are the earlier ones, from his childhood, but the last one is the one from when he and Steve had gone to war.

He finds himself staring at the page holding his draft letter. He knows what the draft is, of course, but he does wonder about how it had affected him. He hadn’t wanted to tell Steve that he had been drafted, but he had obviously told his family…

His dad had been drafted too, he remembers. He wonders how his family would have felt with the same thing happening to him. He blinks and looks up from the binder, staring ahead of himself. No memories seem to be inclined to shake loose right now but… but he does have another option.

He hasn’t really used the BARF tech much since erasing his trigger words. He’d used it that one time to figure out what had happened to Steve, but now… if he wants… he could use it to— to just know about _himself_. He likes being able to remember things by himself, but if he can’t, and if he has a specific memory that he wants to explore… then the BARF tech is a pretty good tool.

He doesn’t exactly know how to use it though, which is something he’s going to have to fix.

He sighs and sets the album aside. Now that the idea is in his head, he knows he’s not going to be able to let it go, so he might as well get on with it. “JARVIS?” he calls, looking up at the ceiling. “Is Stark available?”

He is, and he’s in his lab, like usual, so Bucky gets up and makes his way down there, running his request through his head as he catches the elevator. He has already asked Stark once about using the BARF tech, and the man hadn’t seemed to mind, so hopefully now he has time to _teach_ him how to use it.

Stark is in the back of his labs when he gets there, holographic projections of some kind of building surrounding him in a glowing haze.

Bucky makes his way towards him and watches for a moment, marvelling as Stark spins the holograms around with ease, his brow furled as he changes around the floorplan. The outside of the building seems to have the Avengers symbol on it, although it doesn’t really look like the Tower, and Bucky can’t help wondering what the plans could be for.

He is unsure whether or not he should interrupt Stark, since the man seems to be in the zone, but the decision is taken out of his hands when DUM-E and U realise that he’s here, and they squeal over to him, their claw arms waving with their usual excitement.

He smiles as he pauses to pat and greet them properly, and once he looks up again, Stark has noticed him too, the man sweeping the holograms off to the side as he turns to him.

“Hey Buck,” he says. “Did ya need something?”

Bucky opens his mouth, but finds himself speechless, his brain stalled as he sits staring at Stark. DUM-E nudges him pointedly, and he moves to pet him automatically, still trying to process the fact that Stark had actually just called him by his _name_.

When had— when had that started?

Stark’s eyes flick over him, and he realises abruptly that he’s staying silent for too long, and he scrambles to remember what his original purpose in coming down here had been. “Um,” he says eloquently, his hand still on DUM-E’s claw. “Um, yeah. I was wondering— I was wondering if you could teach me how to use the BARF tech. On my own.”

Stark blinks at his request, and– wait. Should he start calling Stark— Tony, by his first name too? Star– Tony had started it, so… so it’s probably okay now, right? In front of him, Sta– Tony shrugs and folds his arms. “That shouldn’t be a problem,” he says. “It’s not that complicated. I could show you right now, if you want?”

Bucky nods, still a little stunned at this recent development, and watches as St– _Tony_ closes down his holograms, seemingly unconcerned by the whole name thing. He can’t keep his eyes off the man as he gives DUM-E one last absentminded pat and turns to follow him towards the elevator.

“The BARF tech’s pretty intuitive now that it’s developed,” St– Tony tells him as they ride up. “And you have JARVIS to help you if anything goes wrong.”

Bucky nods gratefully and gets off after S–Tony, following him down to the BARF room. The lights flick on as they enter, illuminating the white room and the collection of computers in the corner. It isn’t dusty, so someone must maintain it, and S– _Tony_ leads them over to the computers, pressing a button to start up the monitor as he sits down.

“Okay, so this is just a basic computer,” he starts, wiggling the mouse a little and looking over at him. “You know how to use these?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, taking a seat next to Tony. “I— uh.” His cheeks heat slightly. “I’ve been practising with the laptop you gave me. Thank you for that, by the way.”

Tony waves off the thanks as though he’s embarrassed by it. “Figured it was about time you got something like that,” he says, looking away with a shrug. “They’re pretty key to living in the 21st century now.”

Bucky nods and lets the subject drop, listening as Tony begins to show him how to activate the BARF tech. “So this is the program here,” he says, clicking on an icon and letting it load. “Then you just click ‘new session’.” He clicks on a green button at the top of the screen, and a loading bar appears. “Once it’s ready, it will calibrate the glasses.”

True to his word, a box pops up reading **CALIBRATING…** and they wait patiently as the glasses on the console light up a few times before the computer declares them ready. “Then you just activate the mics and cameras,” Tony continues, showing him the appropriate buttons. “And you should be ready to go. Once you’re finished, you just have to hit “End session’, and shut everything down.”

Tony shows him a few troubleshooting techniques and makes sure he’s comfortable with everything before pushing himself away from the computers and standing up. “That’s about it,” he says. “You can always call in help if you need it.” He rolls his shoulders and casts him a quick glance. “I’m guessing you don’t need me here for this one?”

Bucky shakes his head. “You can go,” he says. “Thank you.” He thinks Tony looks a little relieved at that, and given some of the things the man has seen, Bucky doesn’t exactly blame him. Tony gives him a little mock salute before turning to leave, and Bucky waits until the door is closed before he breathes in and reaches for the glasses.

Everything should be ready, so all he needs to do is stand up and think about the memory he wants to see. His stomach somersaults nervously as he prepares himself, and he breathes in again, trying to settle himself.

The glasses fit easily over his face and he stands up, stepping around the consoles and moving towards the middle of the room, swallowing against the dryness of his throat. “Okay,” he says, and closes his eyes. He thinks of the drafting letter, and waits.

He opens his eyes to the sound of wind, and he sees his holo-self ducking his chin and pulling up his coat collar as he walks, kicking dirty slush off of his boots. Bucky remembers instantly the griminess of city winters, and the street around his holo-self reflects that, even the icicles hanging off the buildings looking a little grey.

It takes him a second, because of the snow, but he realises, as his holo-self shivers and continues down the street, that he _recognises_ the landscape. It's the street his house is on. His suspicions are confirmed when his holo-self turns to walk up towards a familiar narrow house – and he can see now that it is brown naturally, not just because of Steve’s colourblindness – and he watches his holo-self stomp his feet a few times on the steps before reaching for the front door.

He doesn’t knock, instead turning the handle and going right it, announcing his arrival as he stomps his feet again on the mat inside. His cheeks are red from cold as he shuts the door and he sniffs, a smile breaking over his face as Ma Barnes appears in the living room, a look of surprise on her face.

“ _Bucky!”_ She says, smiling, her arms out as she comes towards him. _“I didn’t expect you today. Is everything alright? Steve’s not sick now is he?”_

His holo-self shakes his head and leans forward to accept a kiss on the cheek. _“Nah,”_ he says. _“Steve’s fine. I actually came by to talk to Pa if he’s around.”_ His mother still looks a little surprised by his request, but she doesn’t ask many questions as she calls down his father and the two of them move to the kitchen for a more private conversation.

Bucky can’t help watching George Barnes closely as the man sits down across from his holo-self at the wooden dinner table. He doesn’t have many specific memories of the man, but his holo-self seems to be at ease around him.

 _“Now,”_ George starts once they’ve settled in. _“What was it you wanted to see me about? It’s not Steve again, is it? Heaven knows winters are bad for him.”_

A brief smile flickers over holo-Bucky’s face at his father’s concern, but he seems to have taken on a more solemn mood now that Winnifred is in the other room. _“No,”_ he says softly, shifting slightly. “ _Actually, it’s something else.”_ He swallows once before reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulling out a letter.

It’s already open and out of its envelope, and holo-Bucky unfolds it silently, turning it to face his father. **ORDER TO REPORT FOR INDUCTION** it reads, and Bucky realises abruptly that it’s his draft letter. This must be when he had first gotten it.

Judging from his tight-lipped expression, his past-self hadn’t exactly been overjoyed at the news. George Barnes doesn’t look much better, and they sit in silence for a few moments, before the man swallows and clears his throat.

“ _When do you report in?”_ he asks.

Holo-Bucky’s hands are clasped tight together under the table, his knuckles going white. _“Two weeks from now,”_ he says quietly. _“January twenty-fifth._ ” His eyes flick up for a second to look at his father, before glancing back down at the letter. _“You… were drafted, weren’t you?”_ he asks after a moment.

Bucky remembers the brown uniform in the back closet, and he also remembers how Pa hadn’t spoken much about his military service. He was respectful, but he didn’t talk about it.

He thinks that maybe his holo-self needs to talk about it now.

 _“Yes,”_ George replies, his eyes flicking over his son. _“Scared me to the bone, it did.”_

Holo-Bucky’s head darts up in surprise and he opens his mouth. _“Really?”_ he asks, something small and wavering in his voice. It’s then that Bucky looks, really _looks_ , and he knows instantly that his past-self hadn’t wanted to go to war. If he had, then he would have enlisted when the whole thing had started. But he hadn’t, instead he had tried to stay in New York and stay with Steve.

He can’t help remembering how sick Steve had used to get, and how in just this scene, both of his parents had been worried after the health of his friend. He'd probably been terrified to leave Steve on his own. He’d probably been half-convinced that Steve would die by himself.

 _And then he managed to stubborn his way into the army and solve a bunch of problems and gain a dozen more,_ he thinks wryly as he watches his father shift in his seat across from his holo-self.

 _“’Course I was,_ ” George continues. _“I had you and Winnifred to think of for one thing. I was temporarily deferred for a while, because I had dependents, but Winnifred could make enough to support the two of you if she had to, and she could stay with her parent’s family, so eventually I got sent out._ ” He gives holo-Bucky a sober look. _“I knew we needed to fight,”_ he says. _“But you were only a few months old when I left, and I was terrified that I wouldn’t make it back to you. That you’d never know me.”_

Across from him, holo-Bucky swallows and glances back down at the unassuming draft letter, his hands tightening even further under the table. “ _What do I do now?”_ he asks, his voice quiet, and small, almost forlorn.

George leans forward and holo-Bucky looks up. “ _You go,”_ he says simply. _“You don’t got a choice about that. You go, but then you_ come back, _ya hear?”_ He places his hand on the table between them. _“You come back to us after this is all over, and things will be alright.”_

Holo-Bucky nods mutely, his eyes looking rather glassy, and Bucky finds his own eyes getting wet. _You go and then you come back,_ his father had said. “I’m sorry,” he whispers to the ghost of the man. “I tried. Came back a little late.”

In front of him, holo-Bucky blinks his eyes clear and seems to pull himself together, breathing in. _“I wanted to talk to you about Steve too,”_ he says. _“I know you’ll keep an eye on him,_ _but I_ know _he’s gonna get sick at some point. Especially if he has to push himself while I’m gone.”_ George nods but holo-Bucky continues before he can say anything. _“Also, I don’t want you tellin’ Steve I got drafted. I’m not gonna tell him. You know how he feels about the draft. If he hears I got pulled, I don’t know what he’s gonna do.”_

 _I do,_ thinks Bucky as he remembers how Hannah had said that Steve had started trying to enlist once he himself had joined up. The way she had spoken about it… it had made it seem as though Steve had stubbornly tried to enlist more than once… and while that wouldn’t _surprise_ him, that— that _is_ illegal, right? One way or another?

The current BARF memory doesn’t give him any answer for that, but instead continues to show him as he tucks his draft letter away and exits the kitchen to announce the news to the rest of his family.

Hannah covers her mouth in shock when she hears, and his mother wrings her hands, but no one appears overtly upset. Instead they seem more like they are all putting on brave faces for each other, and Bucky gets the impression that while joining the army is supposed to be an honour, his family had still been frightened for him.

 _Rightly so,_ he thinks, as he pulls off the glasses, letting the image fade out. He’d gone off to war, and then Steve had gone off to war, and then they had both died, never coming back in any way that mattered.

In fact, instead of coming back, he had been captured and forced to fight for the _other side_ for _seventy years_ , and he hadn’t even wanted to join the army in the _first place_. It hadn’t even been his _choice_ to be there at all. He’d gone because it was his duty and because he’d had to, but he hadn’t wanted to, and then Hydra had come in and forced him to keep fighting for seven more decades.

 _Was it ever my choice?_ he wonders despairingly, staring down at the glasses in his hand. They sit in his metal hand, the one that Hydra had given him, when they’d captured him in a war he had been obligated to fight in. Had any of it ever been his choice—?

— _He sits at the bar, separated from the rest of the group that Steve is talking to. He shakes his head when he remembers what Steve looks like now. He keeps forgetting, keeps turning around at the sound of his voice and getting confronted by his face a foot higher than where it’s supposed to be. And how he’d gotten that way, the reason he’d transformed–_

‘A serum,’ _Steve had told him on their march back into Allied territory. ‘_ Cured most things, turned me into this. They can’t recreate it though. Had to argue my way out of a lab.’

_He swallows heavily and presses his wrist into the counter, trying not to remember the needle pokes that had littered the underside not too long ago. Steve had confided in him, in the more solemn hours of the night, that a few too many doctors and officers had wanted to poke at him than had been comfortable, and Bucky had decided right then and there that no one needed to know he might have something similar running in his veins._

_Steve might be able to make himself useful enough to avoid further study, but if the military had a_ spare _–_

_He breathes in, because he’s managing to make himself panic a little, and he takes a sip of his drink, wondering if he’s alcohol resistant like Steve is now. That would suck. Steve had at least sort of chosen that – in his stubborn, fool headed way – but he had in no way signed up to be sober for the rest of his life._

_He hears laughing and he looks up, the men around Steve are smiling, meaning he must have convinced them to join him on his hunt for Hydra. Despite everything, he can’t help smiling at that. Steve had told him what he had wanted to do, and he’d known immediately that he would manage it. Even when he was small, Steve could talk his way in and out of things – he had to if he didn’t want a bloody nose every week – and now that he’s bigger, he almost fills rooms all by himself. People_ want to _follow him now, he looks at them, and he_ sees _them, and people find themselves saluting back._

_He lets out a chuckle and lifts his drink as Steve comes towards him. “See?” he says. “I told you. They’re all idiots.”_

_Steve gives him half a smile at that and comes over to sit next to him at the counter. “How ‘bout you?” he asks. “You ready to follow ‘Captain America’ into the jaws of death?” His voice lilts on the title, mocking it slightly, and Bucky knows why. Captain America is the military’s new favourite man, but he isn’t real. Steve will use him to get where he wants to go, but there’s a lot more under the mask than some people care to see._

_He isn’t using Captain America now though. He jokes about it, bringing up the reason a lot of other soldiers will follow him, to cover for the seriousness of his question, his eyes betraying his desire for an honest answer._

_And he really_ is _asking, not just for show._

‘A lot of men are getting honorable discharges,’ _Steve had told him while he had been recovering back at camp, something deep and searching in his eyes._ ‘You’d get approved if you requested one.’

_He hadn’t requested one._

Are you ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?

 _Not him, no. But— “That little guy from Brooklyn,” he says. “Who was too dumb, not to run away from a fight._ ” He looks over at Steve. _“I’m following him.”_

_Steve’s eyes flicker something like gratitude, before he looks away, the side of his mouth pulling up slightly. Bucky nods and takes a sip of his drink. Going home without Steve is not an option, but this time, staying will be his choice._

_That makes him feel a little better and his mouth quirks up as he gets ready to tease away the heavy atmosphere. “You’re keeping the outfit though, right?” he asks, and Steve immediately rolls his eyes heavenwards—_

Bucky blinks and stands still as he processes his most recent flashback. It had been detailed enough that he can pretty confidently place it in his mental timeline of events, and he takes a step back, moving to shut off the BARF tech so that he can go up to his room and write down what he had just seen.

The flashback seems to reflect a lot of what he had been feeling and he mulls it over as he starts to make his way back to his room. It must have been just after Steve had rescued him from Hydra for the first time. He has a bit of a better idea now why he had never told Steve about his serum – since he seemed intent on keeping it hidden from everyone – and the memory of Steve offering an honourable discharge…

 _Steve knew I was drafted,_ he remembers as he opens the door to his room and steps in, making his way to his desk and pulling out his journal. _He must have known I didn’t want to fight._

Which brings him to Steve’s offer in the flashback. It’s clear now that Steve had been busy organising the Howling Commandos so that he could go hunt down Hydra, and he’d offered him a place on the team… but it had truly been an _offer_ , if Bucky had said no, then Steve would have accepted that and probably would have then tried to send him home. 

He had said yes though.

He’d been wondering if anything from the past seventy-years had been his choice… and it had. For one shining moment at least, and he can't help the relief he feels at that knowledge. He doubts he could have ever gone home without Steve, but at least he knows that he had followed Steve by choice.

Judging from Steve’s expression during the flashback, that fact had been pretty important to him too.

 _“We worked together Buck.”_ He remembers Steve telling him once, as he begins to write out what he had seen on a fresh page. _We were a team,”_ Steve had said. _“Like I am with the Avengers now. You followed me because you trusted me, not because you were afraid I’d hurt you if you didn’t.”_

The sentiment makes sense to him now. It had been a bit confusing to him when Steve had first said it, because he had still been used to thinking of himself as the Asset, but of course Steve would have worked together with him. He wouldn’t have wanted a tool like Hydra had wanted. He was very careful to ask each member of his team because he only wanted people who _wanted_ to be there—

His brain happily makes another connection for him, and he freezes over his journal, his eyes wide. _Of course,_ he thinks. Of course, how had he not seen— “That’s what he wants isn’t it?” he says dazedly. “That’s the answer.”

oOo

He has to wait until the next day to actually do anything about his realisation, but it buzzes noisily in the back of his mind as he makes his way to Steve’s room. He knocks, and once he enters, he finds Steve on the couch, his sketchbook on his lap and his phone propped up on the coffee table in front of him as he follows some kind of online tutorial.

“Hey Buck,” he says, reaching forward to pause the video. “What’s up?”

Bucky tugs on the fabric of his pants in a nervous habit and makes his way around the couch to sit on Steve’s other side. “I figured it out,” he says, catching his eye. “I figured out the reason you didn’t want me to go on missions.

 _I think,_ Steve had told him once, months ago. _That once you understand why I don’t want you going now, then you’ll be able to go on missions. If you want._

At the time, Bucky had thought that he needed to figure out some sort of complicated mystery before he would be allowed on missions. But reality is much simpler, Steve had practically _given_ him the answer all by himself.

It takes a second for Steve to remember what he’s referring to, but he sees the moment recognition lights up in his eyes.

“You wanted to make sure I was going on missions because I wanted to,” Bucky continues as Steve sets down his drawing pencil. “Realising I wasn’t the Asset was part of that, but you wanted to make sure I was following you because I wanted to. Not just because you were my handler.”

Next to him, Steve nods. “Yeah,” he says roughly, before clearing his throat. “Fighting for Hydra had never been your choice, and I knew that going to war really hadn’t been your choice either. I didn’t want you going on missions out of some misplaced, implanted, twisted, sense of duty.”

Bucky nods slowly as he digests this, and Steve shrugs looking down at his sketchbook. “I felt guilty enough anyways,” he says, his wry tone not doing much to hide the self-deprecating note in his voice. “You wouldn’t have gotten captured by Hydra if you hadn’t been following me in my fight against them.”

Bucky scowls and leans forward immediately, prompting Steve to look up at him. He can't have Steve twisting the narrative and blaming himself because– “It was my choice,” he says severely. That was _important_. He hadn’t had many choices about fighting, but that had been one choice that had been _his_.

Steve’s mouth twitches and he has the decency to look a little cowed. “That’s what Peggy said,” he says. “After you died.”

Bucky lets out a breath and leans back, giving Steve a sharp nod. “Yeah well, she sounds smart. You should listen to her sometime.”

Steve’s mouth turns into a crooked smile at that, and he huffs out a laugh, twirling his pencil. “You’re right,” he says, looking up at him. “I know that.” His eyes glance over him and he sets the pencil down again. “So… do you?”

Bucky blinks. “Do I what?”

Steve’s gaze is steady when he looks at him. “Do you want to go on missions now?”

Somehow, he hadn’t thought about that, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to come up with an answer. “I don’t know,” he says finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Bucky noticed Tony was calling him by his name! And he was able to ask him to show him how to use the BARF tech so he could watch his memories by himself. 
> 
> I don’t know what it would have been like getting drafted, but I imagine Bucky didn’t want to.
> 
> So, I already know what Bucky ultimately decides to do, mission wise. But what do you guys think?


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky thinks about missions.

Steve tells him he doesn’t have to decide right away. “Just think about it,” he says. “There’s a lot you can do now. You can do anything. You don’t have to fight if you don’t want to.”

What does he want to do?

That is a question he hasn’t had to deal with a lot. Oh, he’s learned how to figure out basic wants, like what he wants to eat, and what he wants to wear, but he’s only now, after seventy-years, beginning to take charge over his life. Up until now, a lot of what he’d ‘wanted’ had been basic things that had needed to be done, removing the trigger words, choosing a new arm design… but now, he can actually choose what he wants to do with his life.

Does he want to go on Avengers missions?

As the Asset he had, but that had been because he had thought that that was the only way he could be useful, and because he had been terrified of being useless and failing his handler. But he doesn’t have to worry about that now. Instead he has to actually figure out what he wants to do.

Besides the time he had chosen to follow Steve, most of his military career hadn’t been his choice, and even _that_ hadn’t been as bad as what Hydra had done to him. He hadn’t wanted to fight for most of his life, but he’d ended up spending a whole lifetime doing it anyways, and now he isn’t exactly sure what else he can do.

He is _good_ at fighting, he knows that. And… and part of him can’t help feeling that hunting Hydra would be cathartic, and important… but… he’s not sure how much he actually wants to fight beyond that.

But what else can he do?

“There are lots of options,” Steve tells him a few days later, Bucky sitting at his counter while Steve organises lunch for both of them. Steve lets out a quiet laugh and shakes his head self-deprecatingly. “I get it, a little bit,” he says, glancing over his shoulder to look at him. “When I woke up here, it kind of felt like all my other skills were useless too. And the world seemed to kind of need Captain America so…” He shrugs and turns back to his frying pan, the smell of seasoned chicken filling the room.

“It’s different for you though,” Steve continues, stirring the pan with his spatula. “You have time to learn something new if you wanted. There’s classes and online courses. You can find something else to do if you don’t want to fight.”

Bucky narrows his eyes a little and wonders if he’s reading too much into Steve’s words. He can remember how restless Steve had gotten when he’d been benched, so he assumes he wants to go on missions… but he wonders if there is more to it than that. The way he’d been talking, it’s like all those options are open only for Bucky, and not himself, even though they are kind of in the same boat.

“JARVIS can probably help you if you can’t think of anything,” Steve says, leaning forward to turn off the stove and moving on before Bucky can ask him about his suspicions. “You can probably try a few things out before you decide,” Steve continues reassuringly. “And your decision doesn’t have to be set in stone, you know.”

He doesn’t ask for JARVIS’ help just yet, but he does try to decide whether or not he actually wants to fight at all. He spends a lot of time thinking over his past-self’s decision to follow Steve all those years ago. Part of the reason, he thinks, behind that decision, had been that he hadn’t wanted to leave Steve. He can’t imagine having gone home and leaving him to fight, but now…

Steve has a team to fight with him, just like he had before… but he has to admit that this team is better equipped. They are all enhanced in some way so he knows he can trust them to protect Steve, and, Steve has already proven that he can fight with this team and be safe without Bucky spotting him.

Joining the Avengers would probably be helpful, but if he doesn’t… it’s not like he’s leaving a gap. There won’t be a hole left behind without him. _And,_ he thinks, _with modern technology, it will be easier for me to join if I’m ever needed._ If he keeps out of the fight this time, he won't be an ocean away and grasping at scraps of news on Steve’s wellbeing.

All of that comes to the conclusion that he doesn’t have to join just because of Steve. Steve probably doesn’t _want_ him to join because of him – he’d felt guilty over Bucky’s choice last time _anyways_ – if Bucky joins, Steve will want it to be 100% because he wants to.

So he just needs to figure that out.

But… he’s not sure. A part of him wants to go after Hydra, to try to right some of the wrongs he’d been forced to commit… but a part of him is tired of fighting. He'd been forced into it in the first place, and then Hydra had forced him even further than that. Hydra had taken him and twisted him into a killing machine, and he _still_ doesn’t know the full extent of what he’d done for them.

Isn’t seventy-years of fighting enough?

He goes to bed thinking about it, which had probably been a mistake.

_He eases the door open quietly, slipping into the room as silent as a shadow. His knife is already open in his hand, and he keeps it down by his leg as he darts his eyes around the room. The curtains are drawn, leaving the room and its only other occupant in darkness._

_He leaves the door half-open and takes a step further into the room. The Target is asleep in his bed, his quiet breaths filling the room as the Soldier creeps closer. He needs to be quick and silent so that the Target doesn’t wake up. As long as he’s fast, the Target won’t even have to feel anything, and he’ll have completed his mission perfectly–_

_“Dad?”_

_His heart stutters and he freezes at the sound, his eyes widening and his breath catching behind his mask. A girl—? There isn’t supposed to be anyone else in the house— his handlers had_ said _there wasn’t anybody—_

 _He tries to pull away, tries to hide, but the girl is pushing the door open, her nightgown brushing her feet as she steps into the room, her eyes immediately locking on to him. Their gazes meet for half-a-second – both wide-eyed and fearful – and he realises with horror that he’s been here before— he knows what is going to happen— he’s already_ done _this—_

 _“H-hello?” she calls, drawing into herself fearfully. He swallows, his head turning almost in slow motion to look towards the Target, the Target who is_ moving in the bed _and— wait no— he_ doesn’t want to do this, _he doesn’t want_ —

He wakes up to a tangle of blankets and he tugs them off his legs, his breath coming out in sharp gasps as he works on getting himself out of bed. He stumbles, tripping over the trailing edge of his blankets a few times before finally managing to drag himself out to the kitchen, his breath still rather shaky and laboured.

His hands are shaking too much to make tea, and he slumps on one of his island stools, burying his head in his arms as he tries to calm down. His chest hurts as he breathes, and it takes a few minutes before he’s even able to try to _think_ about the protocols that Sam’s app had given him for nightmares. His mind spins and his breath wheezes, but eventually he manages to lift his head and pull up a few of the directions. 

_On waking up, turn the light on, take a few deep breaths,_ it had said. _Notice the sights, sounds and smells around you._

He sucks in an even breath and pushes himself up from the stool before shakily making his way over to the light switch. He squints as the light flicks on before taking a page from Steve’s book and mentally cataloguing the colours in the room.

 _Grey countertops_ , he’d eaten supper there a few hours ago. He’d made— he’d made spaghetti. With sauce from a jar though, not homemade.

 _Blue washcloth,_ he’d washed dishes afterwards.

 _Green dish soap,_ it smells like lemons for some reason though.

 _Yellow dishtowel,_ Steve hadn’t eaten with him, so he’d dried everything himself too.

 _Brown cabinets,_ all his dishes are in there, but he also has a spice cupboard. JARVIS had gotten him a basic spice collection and he’d been very slowly making his way through the flavours. He can still remember the time he’d been feeding Steve and had used too much chili pepper…

He breathes in and finds it a little easier now. He lets out a breath and rubs a hand over his eyes, holding his breath for a second, before breathing in again. His hands are shaking less now, so he makes his way over to his tea cupboard and starts going through the motions of making a cup of tea.

The tea helps, but he can’t avoid thinking about the dream. It's the second time he’s had that particular one, he can remember writing it down before. That alone convinces him even further that the scene had been one of his past missions.

He shudders as he thinks about it, and for a second some of his tea threatens to come back up again. He knows he’s done terrible things for Hydra, but something about that particular mission seems to get under his skin worse than others. He knows it’s because of the girl. Not only had she been a child, but she hadn’t even been a _target_.

Hydra hadn’t ordered him to kill her, not directly at least. They may have ordered him to keep from being seen, and to tie up any loose ends on missions… and part of him is aware that that essentially amounts to the same thing in the end… but he hadn’t _actually_ been ordered to kill her. She hadn’t been a target. A secondary casualty. 

He can remember once, back when he had been the Asset, and he had been trying to convince Steve of the dangers of the other Winter Soldiers, trying to show how bad they were. _They will not avoid secondary casualties_ he’d said. Does that mean that as the Asset he had tried to avoid secondary casualties?

He has to admit, that the idea is somewhat comforting, the idea that he had refused to kill anyone that he hadn’t been ordered to, the idea that that had been so important to him that he had been appalled when the other Winter Soldiers hadn’t done the same…

But he had still killed that girl, hadn’t he?

He knows why. He knows why he did it. He knows that Hydra’s directives had hemmed him in. The girl had been dead the moment she had seen him… But why had she been there? In _both_ dreams he had been convinced that the house should have been empty, that is what his handlers had told him.

If he had known that she was there, would he have been more careful? Would he have been able to avoid the girl and avoid a secondary casualty?

He doesn’t know, because he doesn’t know why his intel had been wrong. And, either way, the girl and her father are still dead – by his hand – and the girl had died afraid.

In the end, it takes him a while to fall back asleep again. He knows Sam’s app had said to avoid sleep deprivation, but he can’t seem to move from the counter, his tea growing cold in his hand as he thinks over the girl’s face, her eyes wide and her mouth half-open, seconds away from a scream that he knows she had never made.

oOo

He’s tired the next day, and a headache sits behind his eyes thanks to the weight of his metal arm, the medication he needs all the way in the kitchen. He doesn’t go get it though.

He is groggy and grumpy when his alarm sounds, and he doesn’t get up for it, instead turning it off and rolling over. He doesn’t exactly want to stay in bed, but he doesn’t want to get up either, so he lays for a while in a sort of half-doze that isn’t exactly restful but is better than being conscious.

His stomach seems to be a bundle of nerves while he lays, unplaced anxiety twisting around in his gut and preventing him from truly resting. After a while he lets out a frustrated huff of air and roles over, trying to find a more comfortable position and swallowing down against anxious nausea.

Things don’t get better though. His blankets are too hot, and his pillow is too soft and the pain in his shoulder gets more pronounced as time goes on, which only serves to darken his mood further. He doesn’t want to get up though. He doesn’t want to have to do things today.

If he gets up, then he has to figure out breakfast, and then he has to figure out things to do besides stare at the wall all day because he isn’t the Asset anymore and he has to do things like make decisions and figure out whether or not he wants to go on Avengers missions.

He scowls as he thinks about it, his mind flashing back to the dream he had had. How can he decide whether or not he wants to fight when he doesn’t even know all the things he’s done with Hydra? He’d been used as a weapon for _years_ ; he’d killed kids and he _doesn’t even know why_. He doesn’t even know what the mission was _for._

Does he even deserve to be on the Avengers’ team? If they knew what he did, would they want him? He ignores the part of him that tries to claim that Tony had made weapons and Natasha had worked for the Red Room, and the Avengers still want _them_ on their team. That doesn’t change the fact that what he’d done is still _bad_.

If they knew they—— His eyes widen, and his breath catches for a second as a realisation hits him. Steve already _knows_ about this mission. He and Tony _both_ know because Hydra had given Steve a file on his past missions. He’d forgotten about that. So Steve already knows about it, and he’d offered him a place on the team anyway—

He wonders if the file explains what the mission was for. It wouldn’t really make it better, it wouldn’t make it _okay_ , but he could at least know _why_. (And he could know how many missions he went on, instead of constantly wondering, worrying about the next time he will remember one.)

He doesn’t know where the file is of course, and—

His train of thought gets cut off as a knocking sounds at his front door. He blinks, and for a second he completely forgets how to respond, it’s rare for him to have people knock on his door–

“Bucky?” a voice calls from outside, and he realises that it’s Steve. “Are you alright?”

He swallows (and realises for the first time how dry his mouth is, because he hasn’t drunk anything yet today), and he suddenly feels embarrassed at his situation. He doesn’t know what time it is, but he's been laying in bed for _way_ too long, moping over a dream that he’d had. His cheeks heat and he buries his head under his pillow, as if that will make Steve and everything else go away.

It doesn’t, of course, and Steve knocks again.

“Bucky?” he calls again, and Bucky doesn’t have the energy to respond, either with the truth or with a lie, so he stays quiet. There is silence for a moment, and he wonders if maybe Steve has left, but the next second he hears his front door open and Steve’s voice a little clearer.

“Bucky?” he says again. “Are you alright? JARVIS says you’re still here, and Clint said you didn’t show up for archery.”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and presses his head further into the pillow. He'd forgotten about his session with Clint today, and JARVIS hadn’t reminded him (probably because he's curled up in a miserable ball on his bed). Even if he had though, he doubts he would have gone. The thought of trying to interact with people today feels like too much work.

Steve must be concerned by his lack of response because he can hear him coming further into the apartment. “Buck?” He’s in the living room now, and Bucky knows that if he wants him to go away then he should get up and try to convince him that he’s fine, but he doesn’t want to do that either, so he just buries himself further in his blanket and tries to ignore his situation.

He can’t even be mad when Steve cautiously pushes open the door to his room. “Bucky?” he says quietly. “Can I come in? I just want to check on you.”

Bucky gives a noncommittal mumble, which Steve must interpret as ‘not a no’, because he comes further into the room, his steps soft on the floor as he makes his way closer to the bed. “How are you doing?” he asks, and when Bucky turns to look, he finds Steve crouched next to the head of his bed, his hand resting gently on his mattress.

“I donno,” he mumbles at him, not wanting to admit everything he’s feeling right now. “Tired. Arm hurts.”

Steve nods and flicks his eyes over him. “Have you taken your pills yet? Are they working?”

Bucky shakes his head and presses his face into his pillow. “Haven’t,” he gets out. “Tired.”

Steve shifts next to him and Bucky doesn’t look up. “Okay,” he says after a moment. “That’s okay.” He shifts and rubs his hand over the mattress, breathing in. “Can you get up for just a minute, Buck? It’s okay if you don’t want to, but if you come with me to the kitchen, then we can get your pill. I’m sure that will help you feel better.” His eyes flick over him. “Have you eaten yet?”

Bucky shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut against his pillow. He doesn’t really want to get up, but maybe he can do it with Steve here. It’s easier with Steve here, because Steve can do all the thinking and all he has to do is get up.

He sighs and lets out a low groan before finally beginning to laboriously push himself into a sitting position. He feels strangely dizzy once he’s up and his head swims slightly as he sits at the edge of his bed. In front of him, Steve offers him a quick, soft smile, before sitting back on his knees and standing up.

“You ready?” he asks, and Bucky sucks in a breath, gritting his teeth before finally pushing himself off the bed. His arm gives a low hum of pain, and his bladder takes the opportunity to remind him that he has yet to go to the bathroom today. He rubs his eyes as he follows Steve out of the room and squints at the sun coming in through his living room window.

“I’ll get something started for you to eat,” Steve tells him as he heads towards the kitchen. “You can sit at the counter if you want.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Gotta go to the bathroom,” he mumbles, keeping his head ducked as he makes his way across the room. He still feels tired as he uses the facilities and he catches sight of his face in the mirror as he washes his hands. He looks pale and drained, and his hair needs to be brushed. He doesn’t want to deal with that though, so he settles for running his hands through his hair a few times and washing his face in an effort to feel more alive.

By the time he comes out of the bathroom, Steve has some instant oatmeal on the stove, and there is a glass of water and his pain medication ready for him on the island counter. He walks over and slumps down on his stool, taking the pill and washing it down with the water. He hadn’t been intending to drink the whole thing at once, but his body kind of takes over for a moment in an attempt to rehydrate, and he finds himself draining the glass.

Steve turns around with a bowl of oatmeal for him and Bucky stares, the scene suddenly all too familiar. How many times has he been here? Him, as the Asset, sitting while Steve takes care of him. Shame rushes through him and he scowls, his fists clenching. He shouldn’t _need_ to be taken care of anymore. He's supposed to be able to take care of himself now, he’s supposed to be able to _do_ this, because–

“You’re _not_ my handler.”

The words come out as a growl – which surprises even him a little bit – and Steve stills for a moment, his eyes flicking over him. Bucky lets out a breath and glances away in embarrassment, not exactly sure if he’s mad at Steve or himself right now.

In front of him, Steve eases forward and sets down the bowl with a quiet click. “I’m not,” he says softly, reaching over to grasp at Bucky’s curled hand. Bucky looks up instinctively at that, and when he does, Steve’s gaze is warm and earnest. “But I am a friend,” he says. “And friends help each other on bad days.”

Bucky’s eyes drop and he nods mutely, his throat suddenly too swollen to respond properly. His eyes are wet, and he blinks it away carefully before breathing in, looking over as Steve settles back and pushes his bowl closer to him.

Bucky hadn’t really felt hungry until now, but now that the food is in front of him, his body takes the chance to remind him that he has an enhanced metabolism, and that not eating probably isn’t helping anything.

He eats, and Steve gets him more once he's finished his first serving, before settling down across from him and resting his hand on his chin, watching him. “Did you want to talk about it?” he asks quietly.

Bucky pauses and stares down into his bowl, stirring the oatmeal around for a few minutes as he thinks. He doesn’t really want to talk to Steve about his dream, but that doesn’t mean that it hadn’t happened, and that the things in the dream hadn’t happened either. Remembering and dealing with his Hydra missions is hard for him, and he can remember now that he’d fallen into a similar kind of funk when he’d first remembered his mission with Howard.

Natasha had helped him with that, and she’d said that things would eventually get better… but it still hurts sometimes. He’d done terrible things for Hydra, and he doesn’t even know _why_.

His eyes dart up to Steve as he suddenly remembers his thoughts from this morning. “Do you still have the file?” he asks, leaning forward. “The one Hydra gave you on my missions?”

Steve’s expression flashes with surprise before going uncertain, and he chews on his bottom lip. “Yes…” he replies reluctantly. “I do.”

Bucky’s heart surges in his chest. “Can I see it?” he bursts out, his eyes on Steve.

Steve looks even more hesitant than before. “Bucky—”

“Please?” he cuts in. He needs to see the file; he needs to know for sure what he’d done and if there was a reason behind it. “I’d rather know than sit here wondering,” he tells Steve. “I can remember some of it but it’s not _enough_ , I don’t know what I’m remembering.”

Steve looks like he would very much rather not grant Bucky’s request, but Bucky gets the impression that it is difficult for him to deny him anything, now that he can ask for things.

He glances over him for a moment and sighs. “…Alright,” he agrees finally, his brow furled slightly in worry. “But…” He looks up and catches Bucky’s eye. “I’d like to be here, while you read it, please. I don’t want you to be alone for that.”

Bucky imagines that his general state today will not support any arguments against that request, and he has also consistently needed to call Steve after dealing with his Hydra history, so he agrees.

“Okay.” Steve sighs again and pushes himself away from the counter, glancing down at Bucky’s half-finished bowl of oatmeal. “I’ll go get it, you finish that.”

Not about to refuse – because he finds his head is a little clearer now that he has some food in him – Bucky works on finishing his breakfast and filling another glass of water for himself while he waits for Steve to come back. His hands shake slightly on the glass as he waits, and his stomach somersaults with nerves as he tries to picture what could be in the file.

He can’t imagine what it will be like reading it, but he can’t help thinking that Steve had had to do it once. He’d had to read through page after page of what had been done to his best friend by an organisation that he’d thought had been destroyed – and then read about the terrible things that his friend had been made to do, up to and including killing _Howard_.

He swallows uneasily at that and stares at his glass. While he knows that it must have been hard for Steve (and Tony too), in a way, it’s a bit of a relief. At least this way he can be sure that Steve accepts him fully, even after everything. Steve knows everything that Hydra had made him do, and he’d done everything he could to free him from Hydra and help him find himself. He probably shouldn’t be surprised that Steve would do that – and he isn’t, really – but it’s still a relief.

He has to breathe in to calm the flash of anxiety that sparks in his gut once he hears Steve returning through his front door, and he turns to see Steve holding a thick beige file in his arms. Bucky swallows dryly at the sight and Steve presses his lips into a thin smile at him.

“Should we sit down?” he asks, with a nod towards the couch, and Bucky stands up, making his way over with Steve, his eyes inevitably drawn to the file as he sits down. “Alright,” Steve says, giving him one last look before finally handing the thing over.

Bucky takes it gingerly, his tongue curled up in his mouth to keep from biting it as he stares at the folder in his lap. It’s a simple beige file, no outward indication of the horror of its contents, and he doesn’t know if he’d expected otherwise. Old blood stains or a deep red Hydra symbol would be appropriate but not very subtle.

He takes in a breath and flips it open.

He very quickly realises that the first several pages of the file are details of his abuse and conditioning by Hydra. There are even a few pages on the construction and implantation of his arm – which he supposes Tony must have studied at some point – but he flips through those pages rather quickly. He knows most of this already and he can’t afford to be bogged down by it before he gets to the important stuff.

He doesn’t exactly know _when_ the mission with the girl had been, but when he thinks about it hard enough, it occurs to him that his hair in his dream had been shorter than it is now. Longer than when he had first been captured, but still shorter than later missions.

He flips past the conditioning records and decides to start at the beginning of his missions. If his hair is short, then that is probably a good place to start and hopefully he won’t have to flip through too many—

He finds it three missions in. The third ever mission that Hydra had sent him on.

Mission file #2062

 **Date:** August 29, 1954

 **Mission** : Eliminate target - no witnesses

 **Location:** Los Angeles, California

 **Target:** Jean Paul Getty - Getty Oil Company

 **Sub-Target:** Amy Getty

He stops reading for a second and stares at the sub-target line. He doesn’t know what that means. Amy must be the girl, but why she would be a ‘sub-target’ and why she is on this file when he hadn’t received any intel on her…

He keeps reading.

 **Handler Notes:** _While seemingly operational, the Soldier displayed reluctance to neutralise child-target Monroe (reference file #2041). Whether this was due to the young age of the target, or because the Soldier required further conditioning is unclear._

_Fortunately, target Getty affords us the opportunity to further test the Soldier’s conditioning. Intel indicates that Getty has part-time custody of his daughter, Amy Getty (8). Measures will be taken to ensure that the Soldier is unaware of her presence before the mission._

_Agent Kuznetsov is tasked with creating a disturbance to alert the child. Within a margin of error, the Soldier will be forced to neutralise the sub-target in order to comply with the parameters of the missions._

_If the Soldier does not comply, further conditioning will be required_ —

He stops reading, frozen in a sort of mute, dumb shock at what he had just learn. “It was a test,” he says numbly, nausea rolling around in his stomach. He’d wanted to know what the mission had been and— it was a _test_. He doesn’t know why the father had been targeted, but everything about his encounter with the girl – with Amy – had been _planned_.

He hadn’t been ordered to kill her, but Hydra had purposely set him up to see if he would. It had been one of his first missions with Hydra, so they had probably still been trying him out, making sure he was working properly and—

He flips back a mission and scans his eyes over the contents.

 **Date:** December 4, 1953

 **Mission:** Terror target - reflection of Gillingham bus disaster

 **Location:** Gillingham, Kent

 **Target** : Woodlands Road School bus

 **Damage Report** : Soldier’s behaviour required use of force and sedation, resulting in grade 2 moderate contusions on upper limbs, face, and torso.

 **Mission Status:** Failed

Notes: _The Soldier performed poorly, displaying reluctance due to child-target Monroe and secondary casualties consistent with mission parameters. The Soldier became resistant to control attempts and was sedated to prevent possibility of escape_. 

He can’t remember that mission, but it’s clear that his handlers hadn’t been pleased when he’d resisted it. So they had spent another few months conditioning him and had then tested him.

He flips back to the mission with Amy.

 **Mission Status** : Complete

He’d passed.

He’d known that, of course. He’d known that he had killed the girl, but after learning that he’d tried not to kill children before he’d hoped—

“Bucky?”

He blinks, and Steve is beside him looking worried. “It was a test,” he rasps out. “To see if I was brainwashed enough to kill children. They didn’t— she didn’t _have_ to die. She wasn’t important. There wasn’t any _reason_ except to test _me_.”

Steve shifts next to him and Bucky keeps his eyes pinned to the mission file, his tongue pressing to the roof of his mouth. “I remember that mission,” Steve says quietly, and when Bucky glances up, his eyes reflect the same pain that he feels.

A thin whine makes it past Bucky’s lips and he clenches his teeth together. “It isn’t _fair_ ,” he bursts out, his hands tightening on the file. “I didn’t _want_ to.”

“I know,” Steve says softly. “I know. It isn’t fair. You should never have had to go through that.”

Bucky sucks in a breath and it shudders in his chest. His eyes grow wet and he presses his lips together, jerking his hands off the file before flipping it closed. Closing it doesn’t erase what it holds though. It is still chalk full of people he’d killed, missions he’d been given and completed.

Had Hydra sent him to murder any other children? How many times had they tested him? How determined were they to force him to eliminate secondary casualties—?

“Bucky.” Steve’s hand is on his arm and he darts his eyes over to him, only now realising that his breathing rate has increased. “Bucky,” Steve says again, his eyes flicking over him. “Come with me. Let’s try something.”

Bucky blinks at him, his surprise outweighing his mental turmoil for a moment as he watches Steve stand up. Steve watches him quietly and after a moment, Bucky nods, sitting up slightly and setting aside the file. He doesn’t exactly know what Steve has in mind, but Steve has a solemn, calm look in his eye that makes him willing to try whatever it is.

He stands up and follows as Steve leads him out of the room and into the hall. “Where are we going?” he asks as they wait for the elevator, the trip helping a little to keep his mind off of the file back in his room.

“The BARF room,” Steve tells him as they get into the lift. Bucky can’t help being a little surprised at their destination – although he isn’t exactly sure what he was expecting – and he stays silent as JARVIS takes the lift down.

Once there, he follows Steve out into the white room and watches silently as his friend goes over to the computer consoles and starts setting them up. Steve sits back after a moment and looks over at him.

“This is just an idea,” he says. “And you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, but…” He trails off and looks over to where the BARF glasses are resting near the computers. He reaches for them and stands up, walking over towards Bucky. 

“The BARF tech has ‘retro-framing’ in the name for a reason,” he says quietly as he reaches Bucky. He holds out the glasses, something complicated going on in his eyes. “Sometimes… our brain gets stuck in the past. Replaying it over and over because of regret or guilt.” He swallows and looks down at the glasses. “This gives you the chance to settle things, a chance for catharsis and closure.” He looks up at him. “If you want, you can use it now.”

Bucky reaches for the glasses and holds them numbly in his hand. “It won’t change anything,” he says. “She’ll still be dead. I’ll still have killed her.”

In front of him, Steve nods. “Yes,” he says quietly. “But this isn’t about changing the past, it’s about learning how to live with it. It’s about letting yourself move on.” Bucky’s eyes drop down and he swallows, his eyes on the glasses. Steve takes a step closer and grasps his upper arm. “You deserve to have peace too, Bucky,” he says. “You’ve been punished enough, don’t you think?”

Bucky lets out a shuddery breath that is almost a laugh and reaches up with his free hand to wipe his eyes. “Alright,” he says quietly. “I’ll try it.”

Steve nods and steps away, letting him put on the glasses and step into the middle of the room. He’s sure that if he were to ask Steve to leave, then he would, but he doesn’t. He wants Steve here for this.

He closes his eyes and breathes in, letting himself think of the horrible mission. He opens his eyes and his holo-self is standing stealthily in a darkened bedroom, his eyes trained on the sleeping figure in the bed, his mouth covered by the mask.

Bucky swallows uneasily and presses his hands into his legs, his eyes sweeping up to where he knows Amy will enter. In front of him, his holo-self creeps forward a step, a knife down by his side, his feet silent on the floor.

The door makes a quiet sound as it swings open and his holo-self stills, his eyes widening as behind him, Amy edges into the room, her face pale. “ _Dad?”_

Bucky breathes in and clenches his teeth. _Retro-framing_ , he reminds himself.

Amy draws back as she catches sight of his holo-self, her hand tightening on the doorframe as her eyes widen. _“H-hello?”_ she calls. This time the figure in the bed doesn’t stir, and his holo-self stays still, swaying slightly by the bed. _“Hello?”_ Amy calls again, taking a tentative step forward. _“Who’s there?”_

By the bed, his holo-self closes his eyes and takes in a breath, slowly reaching over to close his knife and put it away. He turns to Amy then, crouching down to keep from looming over her and reaching up to pull off his mask.

 _“It’s okay,”_ he says quietly, his voice grating roughly in his throat.

Amy stares at him uncertainly, fear still prominent in her eyes. _“Who are you?”_ she asks, her eyes flicking over him.

His holo-self raises his chin. _“My name is Bucky,”_ he tells her, meeting her eyes.

Amy stares into him. “ _Are you going to hurt me?”_ she asks, and Bucky’s stomach clenches at the question.

 _“No,”_ his holo-self says instantly. _“I’m not.”_

Bucky lets the hologram fade out after that before pulling off the glasses. He feels… he feels like crying, but he also feels calmer now. He knows the memory is fabricated. He knows it isn’t real… but it had been what he had _wanted_ to have happened, it— it is what would have happened if he had been in control, if he had had a choice.

And… it helps, a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Bucky doesn’t make a choice about fighting yet in this chapter yet, but he thinks about it a lot, and we get some more insight into his past missions.
> 
> Remember the first time he had that dream? You didn’t even KNOW how evil Hydra was at that point. But at least we got to see Steve helping Bucky through his bad day and help him with what he learned.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky makes a decision (and realises what month is coming.)

Over the next few days, he reads through the rest of the file Hydra had left Steve. He doesn’t do it all at once, because he doubts he could have handled that, but he does read it, because he doesn’t feel comfortable not knowing the full extent of what Hydra had used him for.

It's hard. He gives the folder back to Steve afterwards, because he hates even _looking_ at it, and it makes him sick to think about it, but he forces himself to finish it.

He'd… killed a lot of people. Some of them enemies of Hydra, some of them to promote terror, some of them to slow progress, some of them as a symbol, and some of them as a threat.

He had failed a few of the missions, near the beginning, but most of them he hadn't.

He remembers more of them, now that he’s read about them, and he writes in his journal a lot to help process them. He also finds himself using the BARF tech more, for some of the particularly difficult memories, and Steve stays near him, offering quiet support through dinners and movies. Sam’s app and the tools it gives is helpful too, and after a while, some of the breathing and mental exercises almost become second nature to him.

It doesn’t exactly mean that reading about his missions is _easy_ of course, but he does come to a conclusion.

 _I’m tired of killing people_.

It’s a simple thought, but an important one. He’s spent a lifetime killing people, first for his country, and then for Hydra. And while it might have been his choice to follow Steve during the war, _joining_ the war had never been up to him, and Hydra had taken away whatever agency he had had left when they had captured him.

He explains this to Steve a few days after he’d finished the last of the file, his shoulders slumped in a tired line. “I’ve been fighting for a long time,” he says, the two of them in his room this time while he makes lunch for them. He looks up from where he’s stirring the cheese sauce for his macaroni casserole and glances over to where Steve is sitting at the island. “I know the Avengers aren't like Hydra, and I wouldn’t be sent to kill kids or anything but…”

He looks down for a moment and stirs his sauce again. “I think… I’m tired of fighting. Maybe hunting Hydra would be cathartic, but…” He shrugs his shoulders. “I want to have the chance to do something else. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop if I try going after Hydra now.”

Back at the island, Steve nods. “I know what you mean,” he says quietly. “I mean, I know I’m not good at staying out of fights just in general, but… you know, when I joined the army, I wasn’t intending to be a soldier forever.” He gives Bucky a half-smile and shrugs. “Got kind of wrapped up in it though.”

Bucky squints at him slightly, remembering the last time they had talked about this. _It’s different for you though_ , Steve had said when talking about Bucky’s many options, implying that Steve _didn’t_ have the same options.

“If you don’t want to join the Avengers right now, that’s fine,” Steve continues, oblivious to Bucky’s internal musings. “I’m sure between all of us and JARVIS, we can figure out something for you to do.”

Bucky turns back to his sauce and taste tests it. “And what about you?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at Steve. “Do you want to stay with the Avengers forever?”

Steve blinks at him, as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him before. “I guess,” he says after a moment. “I mean, we’re doing good work, and I don’t think I could stand leaving Hydra out there.” His eyes glance down for a moment and he traces his fingers over the countertop. “I don’t know. We’re kind of like— they’re the closest thing I have to family here, besides you…” He trails off for a moment, looking thoughtful. “But I guess, I don’t want to fight forever either. Maybe one day I can take a break.”

Bucky privately thinks that the world will probably have a hard time letting go of Captain America, but he resolves internally to do whatever he can to ensure that Steve can step back if he ever wants to. Steve should have that option too.

“Well,” he says, in an effort to move on from the subject. “I guess I’m the same except the other way around. I don’t want to fight yet, but I don’t think I’d want to sit out if something major went down. If you have to fight aliens again or something, then I’ll probably step in.”

Steve huffs out a breath and shakes his head. “Man,” he says. “If we need a world disaster to get you to fight, lets hope you never come out of retirement.”

oOo

Deciding to stay off the Avengers’ team for now is at least a concrete decision, but now he’s faced with an entirely new problem. What to do now.

“Well, what do you like to do?” Natasha asks during their weekly sparring session. So far he’s decided to keep these up, along with the rest of his training, because just because he’s not going into combat right now doesn’t mean he wants to dull his skills. Besides that, he finds sparring with Natasha both mentally and physically engaging, even if he does leave with a few bruises sometimes.

“I don’t know,” he says, ducking a high roundhouse kick and moving down to try to sweep her leg. Natasha dances away and he follows her across the mat. “I don’t have a lot of stuff I can do besides fighting.”

Natasha huffs at him and darts in with a three-punch combo. “Well, first of all, no one said you can't use that. You can still use your skills to help us plan our missions, you know. You don’t have to be completely cut off from everything.” He blocks her punches, but finds her trying to use his momentum to get behind him. “And second,” she grunts as he spins and tries to elbow her side. “You _do_ have stuff you can do besides fighting. Pick something and try it. You can’t pick wrong.”

He pants out a breath and manages to shift his weight forward, grabbing her wrist as he kicks his leg out, sweeping her own out from under her. “Pretty sure I’m lacking in work experience—” As she falls, Natasha manages to twist her legs up around his arm and pull him into a throw, both their backs hitting the mat at the same time.

“No one said you can’t go to school,” Natasha shoots back, her chest heaving up and down as she breathes. “You can enroll in individual classes or something. Figure out what you like.”

 _I guess I do have the money for that now_ , Bucky thinks as he rolls over and stands up. His metal arm whines as he reaches down to offer Natasha a hand and he suppresses a sigh.

“Tony still working on your arm?” Natasha asks him as they turn to head towards the gym showers.

He rolls his shoulder to settle it and runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m going to see him tomorrow.”

He’s less nervous than he used to be as he heads down to the lab, his hands shoved in his pockets as he waits for JARVIS to stop the elevator. It probably helps that today he knows that Tony mostly wants his input on arm designs, rather than some kind of examination.

He’s greeted by the usual squeal of excited tires as he enters the lab, and he’s waylaid for several minutes as he pats and coos over DUM-E and U. “Hey, you’re squeaky today too,” he notes as he runs his hand over DUM-E, the robot’s claw letting out a high pitched creak as it moves.

He hears a sigh from across the room and he looks up to see Tony sitting at a table a few feet away. “Yeah,” he says, standing up and stretching out his back. “They’re due for some maintenance soon. Can’t have them wearing out, now can we?”

DUM-E lets out a low whine and Bucky raises an eyebrow at him. “I’m sure maintenance will be fine,” he tells the robot, giving him one final pat before extracting himself and stepping over to where Tony is waiting.

Tony huffs and rolls his eyes. “Oh, they’re always babies about it,” he says, a note of fondness creeping into his voice. “But I’ll deal with that later. Come take a look at what I’ve been working on.” He turns and motions for Bucky to follow him over to a hologram display, waving his hand to remove the previous images of the same building he’d been working on before.

“What’s that?” Bucky asks, watching as the Avengers’ logo flickers out and gets replaced with several 3D variations of his metal arm.

“Oh, just another project.” Tony shrugs. “I can’t seem to only work on one thing at a time. It’s not ready yet though.” He leans towards the hologram display. “ _These_ are looking pretty good though. What do you think?”

Bucky glances over the screen, the various designs rotating slowly to show the full arm. “There’s so many of them,” he comments. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, but he does wonder what he’s getting himself into.

Tony grins at him and clicks on the first blueprint, the arm expanding to fill the screen. “I got inspired,” he says. “I figured I’d let you choose which one you like best.”

And with that he goes off, chatting away as he begins to explain the intricacies of the designs he’d made. “Hydra worked on connecting your prosthetic to your nervous system,” he says, moving his hands to partially deconstruct his model. “It allows you greater control over it, but as for how it’s _attached_ …”

He shakes his head. “We’ll have to do better. Hopefully these arms will put less strain on your body. Although, of course, I also had to come up with a material to use, something light but durable, also, I was thinking, if you can feel pressure, than maybe we could work on feeling _other_ things…”

Bucky finds himself relaxing as Tony talks. His experience with his arm and Hydra had been anything but a good one, but this time he is actually _involved_ in the process, and is aware that it is happening. He doubts Hydra had consulted him much last time.

“So how does it actually work?” he asks, after a while of Tony sharing the pros and cons of different arms and materials. The engineer turns to him and his eyes light up.

“ _Well_ ,” he starts, and Bucky sits back with a grin. He might not know much about engineering, but he’d single-handily learned everything he knows about Tony’s cars, he's willing to try to learn about what’s going to be attached to his body.

So he stays and listens as Tony explains to him about robotic neuroprosthetic systems, and electric currents, and programming, and power sources, and biomechanics. “So, am I like one of your robots now?” he teases once Tony finishes. The engineer blinks at him and lets out a laugh.

“I suppose,” he says. “You come for maintenance and updates.” He snaps his fingers. “That reminds me.” He turns to the two robots waiting at the other end of the lab. “Alright, com’on you two,” he calls, cupping his hands around his mouth. “We don’t want you rusting up, now do we?”

DUM-E and U manage to look begrudging as they come over and Tony huffs at them, placing his hands on his hips as he looks them over. Bucky laughs softly at their antics and reaches out to pat DUM-E’s claw.

“It’ll feel better once it’s over,” he tells him, although he’s not sure how much DUM-E can actually feel, if at all. His words have an effect though, the robot giving a happy whirl before trying to drape his squeaky claw arm over his shoulders.

Bucky grunts and has to duck away to avoid a bloody nose and Tony chuckles as he steps away, coming back a moment later with a box of tools, some lubricant and a rag. “Looks like they’ve already adopted you,” he says, setting down his supplies and crouching in front of them. “Hey, can you pass me that wrench over there?”

He points, and Bucky looks over to where a silver wrench is sitting on the table a few feet away. He grabs it and hands it over, watching as Tony comes to kneel down by U, his eyes focused as he scans the robot’s wheels, his fingers feeling over the axles with care.

“So…” Bucky starts, his hand coming to rest on DUM-E’s claw. “What does maintenance actually entail?”

That sets Tony off again, and Bucky finds himself getting a crash course in robotics. “After they’re _built_ it’s pretty simple,” Tony informs him after explaining their basic construction and programming. “But grime is their main problem. Here, this is a tricky spot. Can you grab…”

And he finds himself helping Tony, holding tools and holding things steady and wiping things down and thoroughly enjoying himself as Tony continues to chat. “Of course they behave for _you_ ,” the man mumbles as he checks over DUM-E’s control panel. “They always make a fuss for me.”

Bucky’s mouth quirks up and he leans over to stage-whisper in U’s direction. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I hate maintenance too.” That seems to vastly amuse the bots and Tony mumbles good-naturedly at them.

“Just hold still while I plug you in, DUM-E— updates are _good_ for your system. You don’t want _bugs_ do you?” He steps back and wipes his forehead once DUM-E and U are plugged into his system so JARVIS can begin updating the two. “Good news for you,” he says, turning to Bucky. “Your new arm should require less maintenance. I tried to make it so that you can take care of most of it.”

Bucky smiles. “That’s great,” he says. “Thanks.”

As usual, Tony waves off his gratitude. “Yeah well, you sat here and listened to me all afternoon, so I guess we’re even.”

Bucky blinks. “I didn’t mind,” he says. “It’s interesting.”

It _is_ interesting. He can’t stop thinking of that as he chooses his favourite design and gives Tony the go-ahead on actually creating the thing. He had _enjoyed_ learning about what Tony had been talking about, and he’d liked helping him with DUM-E and U. He _likes_ that kind of work.

The thought sends him back down to the garage, the glove Tony had given him over his hand as he surveys the collection of cars. Tony’s cars don’t actually need that much work done on them. They get driven rarely enough, and he’d worked on them periodically, so they don’t really need _maintenance_ … but he likes working on them. He likes going through the motions and learning how they tick, he likes keeping them in working order.

 _It’s kind of like my weapons_ , he realises as he begins to make his way over to the first car in the row, a light blue Jaguar XK. He hadn’t thought about it for a while, but even as the Asset, he’d enjoyed it the last time he’d gone through his weapons to maintain them. Working on cars is similar, rhythmic routines, simple quests to figure out problems – _fixable_ problems. That is probably the nicest part, even the worst car is _technically_ fixable.

When Tony had first given him access to the garage and his cars, he’d seen it as some sort of strange training regiment for the Asset. But now he can see that Tony had just been trying to help him do something that he likes.

And… he _does_ like fixing cars, doesn’t he? That had been something he'd figured out all by himself thanks to a flashback. Steve had given him car repairs magazines for his birthday and he’d said: _I know you’d rather be doing that then working at the docks, but I figured you could still read about it_.

 _What are ‘the docks’?_ he wonders as he lifts the hood of the Jaguar and locks it in place, peering inside. Apparently he’d worked at ‘the docks’ instead of with cars, but he isn’t exactly sure what that means. Had the book from the library mentioned anything about it? It probably had, but he’d probably missed it thanks to the influx of _other_ information it had given him.

 _I’ll have to ask Steve_ , he thinks, because it had been long enough now that he’d had to return the library book, and he’s not about to wait until his next trip to the library to find out the mystery behind his past-life’s job.

oOo

He runs into Steve in the common room, the two of them sitting around with the other Avengers while they wait for supper. Apparently Tony had found a new restaurant and needed to share his discovery with the rest of them. It's as good a time as any to ask Steve while they wait for the food to arrive, so he settles next to him on the couch and nudges his foot to get his attention.

Steve glances up at him from his phone and Bucky shifts to cross his knee over his leg. “Do you know what ‘the docks’ are?” he asks – internally surprised at his lack of nervousness. He hasn’t directly asked Steve about past memories very often, but, he reasons, he doesn’t really have a lot of reason to be nervous. It’s completely natural for someone in his situation to have questions. “I have a memory saying I worked there,” he continues. “But I don’t know what it means.”

Steve blinks for a moment before smiling, putting down his phone. “I guess that’d be kind of confusing,” he says, sitting back. “You did work at the docks, there was a shipping dock near where we lived. You unloaded boats and crates and things. It was hard work though, heavy labour.”

“Ah.” Bucky nods, he can remember now the paragraph in the library book about the work he’d done while he’d been living with Steve. “That makes sense.” He gets the impression – although he’s not sure if this is from a half-remembered memory, from Steve, or from the book – that he’d taken whatever job he could back then, in order to support the two of them.

 _If that’s true, then I really do have more options now,_ he thinks, as the elevator dings open and a food courier comes in with their order. Back before the war he’d worked hard jobs because he’d needed to. Now… he can choose to work at what he wants.

It's Clint’s comment during supper that causes all thoughts of work and his own interests to temporary fly out of his head. “Have you guys started counting down the days till Christmas yet?” he asks, digging into his bowl of butter chicken. “December’s almost here.”

Bucky stills, and he can feel his eyes widen as he realises that something _else_ – besides Christmas – is coming soon. _Hannah’s birthday_ , he thinks, the date flashing in his mind. _December 2 nd._ A sense of urgency rushes through him, not quite panic, but a deep intense desire to properly address Hannah’s birthday.

He hasn’t celebrated a birthday as himself before, that he can really remember. He’d been there for Steve’s birthday, but he hadn’t really had to plan that one, and he’d had help in getting a present for him. He has no idea what to get Hannah.

oOo

After he remembers the approaching anniversary, he calls Hannah and makes plans to visit her on the day, but that only adds to the level of urgency he has at finding her a gift. He finds himself in Steve’s room, sitting at his counter with his head buried in his arms, trying to think of something.

“I don’t even know what she likes,” he mumbles. “And even if I did, it’s been seventy years, I have _no_ idea what to get her now.” He sits up abruptly, catching Steve’s eye in the kitchen. “And _Christmas_ is coming. I have to find a present for _that_ too. And what about the Avengers? I haven’t _gotten_ people gifts before.”

Steve chuckles softly and Bucky scowls at him. This is _not_ a laughing matter. “Well,” Steve says, moving to sit across from him. “You seemed to do pretty well for _my_ birthday.”

Bucky’s scowl deepens. “I’d been living with you for two months at that point,” he points out. “And I had the Avengers to help me.”

Steve still looks _far_ too amused for the gravity of the situation. “Well,” he says again. “You don’t have to worry too much about presents for all of the Avengers. I think this year we’re doing a Secret Santa sort of thing. You only have to get a present for one person.”

Bucky huffs and lays his chin back on his arms. “I still have to get Hannah _two_ presents,” he mumbles. “I can’t even _draw_ her something like you could. I don’t know how to make things, so I can’t do something personal like that.”

Steve gets a thoughtful look on his face and Bucky perks up slightly. “I wonder…” Steve starts slowly, his eyes going distant. After a moment he smiles. “I have an idea,” he says with a grin.

Steve’s idea is _perfect,_ and he helps him a little with the project, but for the most part Bucky takes pride in doing most of it on his own. The plan works for a good birthday gift, but he’s still left with a missing Christmas present. 

It isn’t until he’s wrapping Hannah’s scarf around his neck as he gets ready to go to the library with Bruce that he gets a flash of inspiration.

 _What’s your favourite colour?_ he texts Hannah when he gets back. It feels a little strange asking her, because he sort of wishes that he already knew, but she doesn’t seem to mind answering that her favourite colour is yellow. He smiles down at the information and then glances back at his scarf. He might not be able to knit like Hannah can, but he’s sure he can find something appropriate between now and then.

The hunt for the perfect scarf begins and he searches for it in between working on his other project, his excitement growing as December approaches. Natasha introduces him to a few artisan shops near the Tower, and JARVIS helps him find several sites online to look through.

He hadn’t realised how many options there are for scarves before, and also how _expensive_ they can be. Some of the scarfs he sees cost _hundreds_ of dollars. Steve tells him that that is expensive even for modern-day prices, so he narrows his search down to a more reasonable price.

There is still a wide variety to choose from though. He discards linen scarfs and other lighter fabrics. He wants a knitted scarf, a warm one, like the one Hannah had given him. There seems to be a lot of ‘infinity’ scarfs for sale, which aren’t quite right either, and he searches for quite a while for a proper long scarf in an appealing shade of yellow (why is mustard yellow so popular?)

He eventually finds one though, a ‘Super soft cozy over sized knit yellow fade scarf’ in an online store. It's a tighter knit than the one Hannah had made him, but he really likes how the yellow starts out bright in the middle and fades out towards the edges. It’s elegant and warm looking and he can’t help feeling a little proud as he places his order.

He has officially just bought his first present for someone.

He very quickly has to figure out how to do it again because a day or two before he goes to see Hannah for her birthday, the Avengers hand out gift assignments.

“Okay,” Tony says to them as they gather together in the common room, a plastic container holding several slips of paper in his hand. “So, in the effort to keep things simple, and also because Clint has mysterious Christmas plans–” He shoots a glance at Clint, who offers them a sheepish smile. “We’ve decided that everyone will be assigned one person to shop for.” He lifts the container. “Everyone’s name is in here. You can keep your person secret or not, but have your gift ready a week before Christmas, because, again, Clint has mysterious plans away from the Tower.”

Both Clint and Natasha roll their eyes at Tony’s antics, and the man moves around the ring of couches, holding out the container so that each of them can pick a name. “Is there a price limit?” Sam asks as he pulls out his paper and unfolds it.

“Yes,” Steve says before Tony can say anything. “There is, or else Tony will go overboard.” Tony scoffs but doesn’t protest. “Try not to get something over fifty dollars.”

Sam nods and Tony mumbles something quietly under his breath as he moves on to hold the bucket out for Bucky. There are only a few slips left and Bucky reaches for one, pulling it out and unfolding it so that no one can see.

 _Bruce_ , it reads, and he blinks in surprise. For some reason he’d been expecting to somehow get Steve. He hadn’t really thought about what to get for anyone else. He very carefully does not glance at anyone while he puts his paper away – so as to not give away his assignment – and he mulls it over in his head.

He isn’t sure what to get Bruce yet, but at least he has about a month to figure it out.

oOo

Hannah’s birthday comes much quicker though, and he very carefully wraps his project in preparation for his trip upstate to see her. Steve is driving him again, since although he probably could have driven himself, he still technically doesn’t have a licence yet.

“We can probably get you one though,” Steve tells him as they drive up. “SHIELD helped me get mine when I woke up. I had to brush up on the traffic laws and stuff, but it wasn’t too hard.”

Bucky nods, ducking his chin into his scarf and fiddling slightly with the binders on his lap. He’s returning the ones Hannah had lent him, and on top of the pile sits a flat, wrapped package. “What did you get for Hannah?” he asks Steve, glancing down at the second, round looking package between their seats.

Steve offers him a sly grin and keeps his eyes on the road. “You’ll just have to wait and see,” he says.

Bucky huffs at him.

Now that he knows that Hannah’s favourite colour is yellow, he can’t help wondering if she had specifically painted her house that colour, or if she had bought it that way. He smiles at the idea as he and Steve park the car and get out, their respective presents in their hands.

It’s a chilly day, but someone has shovelled the sidewalk leading up to Hannah’s door, and he wonders who it could have been, since he doubts it was Hannah with her cane. She is leaning on said cane when she opens the door for them, her face lighting up in a smile as she greets them.

“You’re wearing the scarf!” she says happily, her eyes sparkling as she glances over him.

Bucky raises his chin. “Of course,” he says, as though the idea of not doing so would be sacrilegious. “It’s warm.”

Hannah laughs softly at that and steps back to let them in, the warmth of her house welcome after the chill from outside. There is a tree up in the corner of her living room now, a small one, covered in various decorative and homemade ornaments.

“Kimberly – that’s Noah’s daughter – she came ‘round with her children the other day to help me set this up,” Hannah tells them proudly. “She’s got two girls, you know. Eight and ten I believe.”

Bucky sits down next to Steve on the couch and nods at the news of his great-great-nieces. “Do they visit often?” he asks.

Hannah takes a seat in the armchair by the window and sets her cane aside. “Often enough,” she says. “Noah used to come by more often, but you know, he’s getting on in years.”

Bucky nods again, although it still feels strange that his nephew, and even his great-nephew and niece have lived almost an entire lifetime by now. His nephew has a daughter, who _also_ has daughters, and _they_ are ten years old.

“Scott called to tell me he’s coming over later this week,” Hannah tells him, drawing his attention back to her. “He's Noah’s boy. He doesn’t have any children. But I had to put up his favourite ornament, since he’s coming over.”

That comment sparks a conversation over the history and backstory of all the ornaments on Hannah’s tree, and it turns out that she even has a few still from when they were children. “We didn’t have a lot of fancy ornaments back then,” she says. “But you see that little wooden star hanging on that branch there?” Bucky looks and sees a small, polished star hanging from one of the branches. “That was the first present I ever bought myself to give Ma,” Hannah tells them proudly. “She kept it all the way until she died.”

Steve smiles softly at that. “Well,” he says, shifting his gift in his hands. “Bucky has your binders to return, and we have some presents for you.”

Hannah brightens and directs Bucky where to replace the binders he had borrowed (as well as a few others he can take with him again) before turning to Steve with his present. It’s round, but flat on the bottom, and when Hannah carefully unwraps the wrapping paper, it reveals a round metal tin. She gives Steve a curious glance before reaching down and lifting the lid.

“Oh!” she gasps in surprise, a smile growing on her lips. “They’re no-bake cookies! I haven’t had these in years!”

Steve lets out a delighted laugh at her reaction and shoots Bucky a smile. “Ma used to make them every year,” he says. “Hannah would sneak them all the time. Luckily for her, Ma passed down the recipe to me.”

Steve looks immensely proud of himself and Bucky can’t help smiling as Hannah passes the tin around for them each to have one. “Nothing I’ve had can compare to Ma Rogers’ no-bake cookies,” she says before giving Steve a look. “I fully expect another batch at Christmas, you have seventy years to make up for.”

Steve doesn’t seem to mind that stipulation and Bucky finishes off his cookie (Steve is _definitely_ going to have to make more of them) before shyly walking over to hand Hannah her present. He retreats back to his seat as she lays the flat package on her lap and he watches anxiously as she begins to unwrap it.

He can see the moment she realises what it is, her hands stilling as her eyes widen and she stares at the book in her lap. “I thought…” He clears his throat. “I thought, you have so many pictures and binders about our family, but— well, Steve helped me with the idea, but I thought, if you wanted pictures of me _now_ …”

He trails off and watches in silence as Hannah reverently opens the book. It’s a photo album, like the ones in her collection, except this one is filled with pictures she doesn’t have. The first few pages of the book have photos of him from the war, copied pictures from Steve of him with the Howling Commandos or out in the field, but after that the pictures take on colour, and they show him in the Tower.

He hadn’t exactly had a lot of pictures of himself, but JARVIS had helped out, finding still-footage of him from the security cameras and printing them out for him to use. They are simple things, pictures of him with Tony’s bots, or cooking with Sam, watching a movie or working on cars, but they are moments of his life that Hannah had never gotten to see.

He’d done his best to label them like she had with her albums, little notes such as ‘ _The first time I ate a strawberry’,_ or ‘ _Figuring out a laptop with Steve’_ , and he watches as Hannah flips through some of the pages, her eyes darting over the contents.

A tear slips down her face as she reads, and Bucky sits up in concern, wondering if his present had been _way_ off the mark— but she looks up at him and smiles, her eyes as bright as ever.

“Thank you,” she says softly. “This— thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Bucky made his choice about fighting. I felt that even if he wanted to fight, he needs some time to figure out himself first. Going back into fighting immediately would keep him from rediscovering anything else. Thankfully, he seems to be having help on that front.
> 
> And then, of course, time continues, and Christmas is coming! What did you think of his present for Hannah, and also his secret Santa assignment?


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Christmas comes, as well as a certain surgery.

Hannah’s birthday present had been a success, which gives him hope for her Christmas one. The holiday is still a few weeks away though, and he has a more immediate concern, namely, Bruce’s gift.

He knows the basic things that he likes, tea, books, science, but he isn’t exactly sure which of those things could work as a good gift for him. He _could_ get him tea, but what kind? He _could_ get him a book, but which one? He _could_ try to give him something sciency, but what?

He asks Tony about Bruce’s kind of science the next time he goes down to the lab to look over the beginnings for his new arm, and he very quickly discovers that he doesn’t know much about Bruce’s field.

“He’s less programming and robots and more genetics and biology,” Tony tells him, tweaking something in the internal mechanisms of the holograph projection of his arm. “Even I wouldn’t know what to get him scientifically, except maybe a corny joke shirt, or a meet-and-greet with someone in his field.”

Neither of those things seem like something he wants to do (since he doesn’t understand enough about Bruce’s science to even _know_ what would count as a joke), so he discards those ideas, turning instead to his other two options.

“It doesn’t have to be fancy,” Steve reminds him later. “It’s just something nice to do with friends, not a competition.”

That helps, but only marginally. He wants to get something for Bruce that _means_ something. He hadn’t thought about it much until now, but the man had been very important for his recovery process. As the Asset, he’d been more-or-less terrified of doctors and doctor’s appointments, but Bruce had always been very careful and gentle, slowly helping him grow to trust him.

He wants to get him something to show how much he appreciates that, and everything else he’d done for him, but he doesn’t know how.

While browsing online he finds a set of tea bags that look like goldfish swimming in the tea, and he orders some for lack of anything better. He at least has something, but he still keeps an eye out, searching for inspiration. Although… he isn’t sure if there actually _is_ a present that exists that would do what he wants it to.

As the day of the holiday approaches, he can’t help being curious as to who has _him_ for their assignment. He sort of wants it to be a surprise, so he doesn’t try to snoop around, but at the same time he can’t help squinting suspiciously at the other Avengers sometimes. He can’t imagine what one of them will get him, _he_ doesn’t even know what he wants, so he imagines whoever has him probably is in a similar boat as him with his present for Bruce.

It isn’t until the night before the gift exchange that he has an idea. The tea bags for Bruce are hidden away in his safe (because he’s pretty sure Natasha is on a mission to find out everyone’s present before them, even if she’s keeping her mouth shut about it), and he sits down at his desk, pulling out a sheet of paper.

The actual gift exchange day is about a week before Christmas, since Clint has other plans and Sam is leaving to go see his family.

 _I suppose, I’m going to see my family too_ , Bucky muses as he carries his wrapped gift up to the common room. It feels a little weird to think about, considering how he hadn’t even known he had a family until a few months ago, but now he and Steve actually have somewhere to go like everybody else.

He's pretty sure Bruce and Tony are staying in the Tower though, but from what Tony had said, he has plans for a small get-together with Pepper and Rhodey, so he’s not too worried about them.

He is a _little_ worried about his present to Bruce, but he’d done his best, so hopefully the man will like it.

“Alright.” He looks up as Tony places a large rectangle package on the floor before flopping down on the couch. “Everyone ready?” The rest of the Avengers make various sounds of agreement as they settle in and set out their presents. “Perfect,” Tony says, sitting up slightly. “Steve, you’re the youngest, and also pretty much the oldest one here, so you should go first.”

Steve huffs slightly at that, but pulls out his gift good-naturedly. “My person was Clint,” he says, standing up to hand over the present.

Clint rips into it eagerly. It’s a thin package, and the ripped paper reveals a green plastic case. It’s apparently some sort of video game. Bucky doesn’t know much about those, but Clint seems to be excited and Steve smiles in satisfaction at his reaction.

Clint gives away his present next to Sam, which turns out to be a cookbook for– “ _Gourmet Bird Food Recipes_ ,” Sam recites in confusion, his eyebrows quirking up at Clint.

The archer grins. “Figured it might come in handy,” he replies cheekily, and next to him, Natasha snorts, the noise prompting smiles from the rest of the Avengers. Sam rolls his eyes, but seems to enjoy his present anyways, and he turns to give his present to Natasha.

It’s a game called _Codenames_ , obviously playing off of Natasha’s spy persona, and the woman herself promptly insists that they play it once they get back together after Christmas. Natasha’s assignment had been Steve, and she passes him a rather lumpy looking present.

“This is just as much for my benefit as yours,” she tells him as he unwraps a new set of boxing gloves. “Now you don’t have to wrap your hands when we spar.” Steve smiles at that and wiggles his fingers into the gloves, flexing them a few times before turning to the rest of them.

“I’ve already given my gift,” he says. “Who wants to go next?” Bucky’s mind stalls at the idea of volunteering, but thankfully he doesn’t have to, since Bruce steps up, reaching down for his own present and handing it over to Tony. 

It's a medium sized rectangle box, and Tony pays no mind to the paper as he tears it open. The paper peels away to reveal a white cardboard box with a wooden model on the front. “Mechanical Paper Plane Launcher,” Tony reads, his eyes bright as he glances over the box.

Bruce leans forward. “You build it yourself,” he says. “And I thought DUM-E and U would have fun playing fetch with it.”

The project does look entertaining, but Tony seems extra mesmerized by the gift for reasons that Bucky isn’t quite sure of. It's obvious though that he appreciates it, and he sets it aside almost reverently before grabbing his own present. “Alright,” he says, giving his head a little shake. “So I got Bucky.”

Bucky supposes he should have guessed that, seeing as nobody else had had him, but he still can’t help feeling a little stunned as Tony lifts up his package with a grunt and carries it over to him, setting it down on the couch next to him with a rattle.

It’s a thin package, although from the way Tony’s handling it, it’s obviously heavy. Bucky raises his eyebrow slightly but reaches for it, pulling it onto his lap before instinctively peeling the tape away from the paper instead of ripping.

“Should've known you would be just like Steve,” Tony mutters as he makes his way back to his seat. Steve laughs at that, but nobody rushes him as he carefully pulls away the paper from the gift.

It’s a toolbox. He stares at it and runs his fingers along the hard-plastic surface. He'd seen these boxes in Tony’s lab and in the garage, but he'd never expected—

From his seat on the couch Tony is practically vibrating with impatience. “Open it!” he bursts out, and Bucky can’t help smiling.

He releases the clasps and lifts the top. The toolbox unfolds like a book and reveals a plethora of tools nestled neatly on both sides. He stares, completely speechless. There is _everything_ in this box, screwdrivers, and pliers, and wrenches, and a small saw, and a hammer, and wire strippers, and a utility knife, and a measuring tape, and _that_ is just the start.

He darts his head up to Tony, his mouth opening slightly in shock. “This is amazing,” he breathes. “This— this is for me?”

Across from him, Tony relaxes at the positive reception of his gift and pulls up an easy smile. “Of course,” he says, a proud gleam in his eye. “If you want to get your hands dirty with that kind of stuff, then you’re going to need your own set.”

Bucky clutches the box closer to him and nods, still a little stunned. “Yeah,” he gets out, his mind racing. He had been wondering – hadn’t he – what he could do now that he isn’t the Asset, and he likes working in the lab and the garage and now he has his own toolbox—

He realises abruptly that he’d been sitting, grinning over his own present, while he still has his to give, and he breathes in, sweeping up his shock and joy over his gift, before turning to carefully put it aside, his fingers brushing over the case as he closes it, still getting used to the idea that it is _his_.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, catching Tony’s eye for a second and daring him to try to duck away from the thanks. He is very nearly 100% certain that the man had gone over the price limit for this gift, but he supposes he should have expected that.

Tony opens his mouth, probably to brush the praise away like usual, but Bucky doesn’t give him the chance because he reaches down for his wrapped present and turns towards Bruce. “This is for you,” he says, feeling slightly embarrassed. His gift feels a little less perfect than the rest of the Avengers, but he hopes Bruce likes it anyways.

Bruce smiles as he accepts the small package and Bucky watches as he peels away the paper to reveal the box of goldfish teabags. He smiles at them, but Bucky keeps watching, because while the teabags are nice, the rest of the present, the _important_ part, is the card taped to the top.

Nobody else had written anybody else any cards, so Bucky feels a little awkward as they wait while Bruce reaches to open it, but he keeps his jaw set. He might not have been able to find the perfect present to tell Bruce what he wanted, but he could _write it down_.

The card itself is nothing special, just a sheet of lined paper, but the contents… It probably isn’t the most elegant of notes, but it is sincere. He’d wanted to tell Bruce how much he had helped him; how afraid he had been of doctors and medical procedures and how much the man had been able to gain his trust.

 _I’m never afraid when you’re around anymore_ , he’d said, because it’s true. When he’d woken up in med-bay after his arm had locked up, he hadn’t been afraid. He’d known that Bruce would take care of everything.

He stares as Bruce begins to read the letter, and he swallows nervously, his hands knotting in his lap. He hasn’t really said anything like this to anyone before – even if he isn’t exactly _saying_ it right now – so he isn’t exactly sure what to expect.

He _hadn’t_ been expecting Bruce's eyes to fill with tears. He doesn’t actually cry, but he looks about ready to, and Bucky sits up in alarm, his mind racing. Had he actually managed to offend the man? He hadn't been _trying_ to. Had he misjudged the situation somehow—?

Bruce looks up at him and smiles, his eyes bright. “Thank you, Bucky,” he says, his voice rough. Bucky relaxes, recognising that he hadn’t messed this up, in fact, Bruce seems to be really touched by his gesture, the man brushing lightly at his eyes as he reads the note again.

Bucky smiles and lets out a breath of relief. “You’re welcome,” he says.

oOo

The success of his Christmas present to Bruce leaves him feeling excited for his one to Hannah. He and Steve go up to visit her the day _before_ Christmas, since she has other family visiting her later, and Bucky isn’t quite ready yet to try to meet them.

Hannah doesn’t seem to mind, smiling just as bright as usual as she lets them into her house. “Merry Christmas,” she says as they juggle their gifts and shed their coats. Her house smells like baking, and she leads them to the kitchen, sitting them down at the table to a plateful of gingerbread cookies.

“Ma’s recipe,” she tells him with a grin, and even if he doesn’t remember it, Bucky savors the flavour.

As promised, Steve has brought another batch of his no-bake cookies as well as another smaller present. Bucky watches as Hannah accepts the small box and pulls the lid off. “Oh,” she breathes as she pulls out small red star made out of glass. It hangs from her fingers from a thin silver thread, and Bucky realises that it’s a reflection of the wooden star on her tree.

“I thought you might like an ornament from us too,” Steve says, his face soft as Hannah looks over the gift. Bucky can’t help admiring it too. Hannah may not know it, because he has yet to show her his full arm, but the star really _does_ match the both of them.

 _At least for now,_ he thinks. His new arm will look slightly different.

He pushes the thought away for now as he reaches to hand Hannah his own gift. “I hope you like it,” he says, noting how she unwraps it in the same careful manner as he and Steve. Maybe Tony is the weird one on this, instead of them.

In front of him, Hannah pulls the wrapping paper away from the scarf, and he can’t help holding his breath, watching as she looks it over, her eyes wide. “It’s beautiful,” she breathes, running her hands over the soft material.

Bucky breathes out and smiles. “Now we match,” he says. “Sorta.”

Hannah laughs at that before pulling the scarf away from the paper and wrapping it around her neck. “If we match, then we need a picture together,” she says. “Steve, do you have your phone?”

He does, and Bucky gets up to get his scarf before coming back and settling down next to Hannah, she leans into his shoulder and he gives a start when he realises that he’d sat with his left arm towards her. Hannah doesn’t hesitate though, as she grabs his metal hand and squeezes it.

“Say cheese,” Steve tells them as he stands in front of them, his phone in hand. Bucky doesn’t have to say anything to have a smile on his face.

Hannah has her own presents for them after the picture. “I hope I got the size right,” she says as they unwrap their presents. Bucky smiles as he sees what it is. She'd knitted them both a pair of mittens, his, blue to match his scarf, and Steve’s a combination of blue and yellow.

“Of course, I know you can see more colours now, but I remember those were the ones you could see before,” Hannah tells him, before turning to Bucky. “I hope the fibers don’t get caught in your hand,” she says anxiously.

Bucky shakes his head and slips the glove on. Even if fibers _did_ get caught in his metal hand, he would still wear them. “It’s fine,” he reassures Hannah. “Besides, I’m getting a new one soon. This one can stand whatever else I have to throw at it.”

Hannah smiles, the wrinkles on her face amplifying the gesture. “You’ll have to show me your new one,” she says, and Bucky pauses, blinking.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Yeah, I will.”

oOo

He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told Hannah that he would be getting a new arm soon. Tony calls him down to his lab a few days after Christmas to show him his completed arm, ready now to replace his old one.

“Kind of a belated Christmas present, I guess,” Tony tells him, as he looks it over, fiddling slightly with the fingers. “We’re pretty much ready though, now we just need to find you a team of doctors and come up with a surgery plan.”

Bucky looks up. “How long do you think that will take?” he asks.

Tony shrugs. “I’ve got some people in mind, and Bruce is already working on some of it. I’d say we’d be ready sometime in January.”

Bucky looks back at the arm on the table and rolls his metal shoulder, breathing in once before nodding. “Sounds good to me,” he says.

He has to admit, he feels better knowing that Bruce will be helping pick his medical team. He knows most doctors are ethical and trustworthy, but he’s comfortable with Bruce, and knowing that he’s involved with the process is a relief.

“We want you to be as comfortable as possible,” Bruce tells him. “The doctors we’ve found are all very competent in their field. Tony’s even worked with one of them before.”

The doctor Tony had worked with turns out to be a man name Stephen Strange. Doctor Strange is primarily a neurosurgeon, but is apparently brilliant, and also especially skilled with working with the nervous system, something which will be important when re-attaching Bucky’s new arm.

Bruce organises a meeting between him and the doctors so that they can prepare for the surgery, and so that Bucky can grow more comfortable with them. Upon meeting him, Doctor Strange seems a little arrogant for his taste, but confident in his abilities, and he’d come with another doctor who will be on his team.

“I’m Doctor Christine Palmer,” a smiling brown-haired woman tells him, holding out her hand. “I work with Stephen.”

Bucky accepts her handshake and listens to the two of them discuss his arm and the upcoming surgery. “We’re lucky that Bruce has enlisted the help of Doctor Helen Cho too,” Doctor Palmer tells him after a while. “Her work with nano-molecular tissue will certainly be a big help in making sure the surgery is successful.”

Bucky nods at that. Helen Cho is the third doctor recruited for his surgery, a brilliant mind working in South Korea that both Bruce and Tony had spoken about in admiration. Because of her location outside of the States, Bucky doesn’t get to meet her until after New Years, but once she arrives at the Tower, she is quickly settled into one of the guest rooms, and Bucky goes down to meet her in the lab that had been set aside for her.

Doctor Cho turns out to be a sharp-minded but quiet woman, her gentle manner reminding him a lot of Bruce as she shows him the Regeneration Cradle she has been working on. “It’s not ready for wide-scale use yet,” she says, as he watches the machine repair a small scrape on her knuckle. “But it will help lower the recovery time for your surgery, and it will help repair some of the damage from your previous prosthetic.”

He swallows and rolls his shoulder, his eyes still on Doctor Cho’s machine. He finds he can’t really imagine what it will be like to have a different arm than the one he has now. He knows Tony’s will be better and more comfortable, and he knows that getting a new arm will hopefully result in something less painful and easier to use… but he has no idea what that will be like. He can’t even imagine it… but the surgery is getting closer and closer.

Besides the doctors, he also has a few physical and prosthetic therapists, which Tony consults, before he and his team get together to plan the details of the operation.

And then suddenly the date is set, a day in the last week of January, when he will finally get his arm removed and replaced with another.

“Because Tony’s arm is detachable, the plan is to first remove your old arm, and then implant the port for the new one,” Bruce tells him, his eyes gentle as he sits next to him on the common room couch and explains the plan.

“So that means when you come out from surgery, you’ll be waking up with one arm, for the time being. Once we’re certain everything is in order, Tony will show you how to attach the actual arm, and if all goes well, you should have a new prosthetic.” 

Bucky nods. “That make sense,” he says. He’s not exactly sure what it will be like to wake up with just one arm, since he doesn’t remember much of that before Hydra had given him his current one, but in a way, he is kind of glad that he will get the experience. If he had never been captured by Hydra, then he would have had to live his life with one arm, so it will be interesting to experience that for a little while.

Bruce smiles at him. “Alright. I know we’ve gone over everything a few times, but if you have any questions you can always ask me. I know this whole thing can be pretty intimidating, so, please don’t hesitate.”

Bucky nods and thanks him, feeling extra conscious of his arm as he moves to stand and head back to his room. He’s excited to get it taken and replaced, but at the same time, he will also be very glad for when this will all be finally over.

oOo

The days seem to take extra pleasure in dragging out before his operation, and Bucky finds himself relying on the relaxation and grounding techniques in Sam’s app as the day of the appointment grows closer. With Hydra, he hadn’t really known that his surgery had been coming, and he hadn’t really been in a place to worry about it, but now his mind seems to be making up for lost time.

And then the day of the surgery arrives.

The operation itself is at the hospital that Doctor Strange and Doctor Palmer work at, and Steve drives both him and Bruce over on the day of the appointment. “You doing okay?” he asks as Bucky watches the buildings pass outside the car window.

He nods. He is as okay as possible, he supposes. He doubts anyone in his position could avoid being nervous, but he knows intellectually that he’s safe, and that he will be grateful once the operation is completed.

Steve gives him a quiet nod in return and offers him a small reassuring smile. “We’re almost there,” he says as he flicks on his turn signal and prepares to turn the corner. Bucky swallows and rolls his shoulder, his eyes on the approaching brick and concrete building, the hospital looming above them a dozen stories high.

Bruce shifts in the back seat and Bucky reminds himself that the hospital is the one that Doctor Palmer works at, and that it isn’t inherently dangerous, and that everyone around him is working very hard to make sure his operation is a successful one.

He rolls his shoulder again.

After Steve finds a place to park, they sign in and Bucky is led to a hospital room to get prepped for the surgery. Bruce and Steve wait for him while he gets changed into his hospital gown and he comes back to sit on the hospital bed, his stomach beginning to twist around anxiously with nerves.

Bruce smiles reassuringly at him as he sits down. “I’m just going to finalise some things with the nurse,” he says, turning to head out of the room. “We should begin surgery prep soon.”

Bucky nods at him and tries to breathe in and out evenly. Bruce has the most experience with the anesthetic developed for both him and Steve, so he will be overviewing that, which is a relief. He can remember the half-lucid state he had been forced into when Hydra had operated on him, and he does _not_ want to relive that again.

He wishes he hadn’t thought of that, because he finds himself tense by the time Bruce returns with the nurse, his jaw clenched and his right hand pressing into his leg to keep it from shaking. The nurse smiles at him while she prepares the sedative under the direction of Bruce – and he knows that Bruce doesn’t actually have a medical degree in this country, but he would really rather that he do it – and she’s busy explaining to him what’s about to happen just like Bruce would but—

“Bucky.”

He blinks and Steve is by his side, not touching him but standing next to him, his eyes worried. “Bucky, can you breathe in slowly for me?” he asks, and Bucky realises that his breaths have gotten rather short, his right hand pressing almost painfully into his leg as his heart pounds against his chest.

He sucks in a breath and holds it for a moment before letting it out again. He swallows and breathes in again, noting how the nurse has backed off, standing next to Bruce again as they wait for him. Bruce catches his eye and gives him a smile. “Just take your time,” he says. “It's fine.”

Bucky nods and presses his lips together as he takes in another breath through his nose. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that he had been triggered. Everyone, including him, knows that this operation is bound to bring up some bad memories… But he knows that he can deal with them.

He sets his jaw and thinks back to the PTSD app on his phone. He’d been using it to prepare for the operation, and its suggestion for triggering was… 

The RID tool, Relax, Identify, Decide. He takes in another breath, consciously making it slow and deep. Well, he’s already working on the relaxing bit. Everyone is being patient with him, which means he doesn’t have to stress about that. As for identifying the trigger…

He glances over to the nurse and her prep station. It's pretty easy to figure out that needles and the fear of waking up during surgery had been the thing to set him off, which pretty much leads immediately into the ‘decide what to do’ part of the exercise.

He knows he needs to be put under, and he knows that that can’t really be avoided, but he can remind himself that he is safe, and that Bruce will be making sure that the sedative works, and that the man had already used it once to help him when his arm was hurting. He relaxes his shoulders and breathes in again, his right hand letting up on its pressure a little as he swallows and few times and works his jaw around, letting his teeth take a break from being clenched.

Steve is still next to him when he looks around, but he’s got a calmer look in his eye now, and Bucky can imagine that he can tell from his heartbeat that he’s calming down. “You ready?” Steve asks, and Bucky nods, looking back at the nurse.

“I’m ready,” he says.

oOo

Waking up from surgery feels very similar to when he’d woken up after his arm had seized. As an added bonus, this awakening is a lot more pleasant than the one he’d had with Hydra when they had first attached his arm. Back then he hadn’t even known to expect a new hunk of metal on his left side, this time he isn’t surprised when he wakes up to find his arm gone, white bandages hiding the new port for his prosthetic.

“How do you feel?” Steve asks from the hospital chair on his other side. “The doctor’s will probably talk to you soon, but they said the surgery went well.”

It might be the lingering drugs in his system, but Bucky finds that he is much calmer than he had been before the surgery. Now that it’s over, he doesn’t have to stress about it, and he finds himself smiling at Steve’s words.

“That’s good,” he says, before shifting to push himself up a little on his bed. Somehow, even though he knows he currently doesn’t have a left arm, he instinctively tries to use it anyways, and he lets out a muffled chuckle as he fumbles.

Steve is smiling too when he looks over, and Bucky huffs at him good-naturedly. It feels weird not to have his arm there. The difficulty probably lies with the fact that he’s lived for a very long time not exactly _feeling_ his arm, but still having it anyways. Before, he could feel the weight of his prosthetic, and he could feel pressure changes while he used it, but it didn’t exactly feel like an _arm_. So, when he lacks feeling on his left side now, his brain still assumes that something useful is attached.

His shoulder _does_ feel way lighter though, and he tries to refrain from rolling it experimentally, because he doesn’t feel like testing whatever pain meds he is on. Doctor Cho’s machine might have helped with repairing the damage to his arm and with healing it, but he doubts his body will get used to the brand-new port in his shoulder right away.

“I’ll go tell the nurse you’re awake,” Steve tells him, standing up. “Bruce went on a coffee run, so he’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Steve’s prediction proves correct, and soon Bucky’s hospital room is filled with his surgeons, Bruce, Steve, Tony and the same nurse from before.

“Your surgery was a success,” Doctor Strange tells him, the expression on his face making it clear that he had expected nothing less. “We still need to keep you under observation for a few days, but with your serum and Doctor Cho’s machine, we expect you to heal much faster than most from the operation.”

Next to him, Doctor Palmer nods. “In the meantime, you’ll work with your physical therapist, and once we clear you, Mister Stark can introduce your actual prosthetic.”

Bucky nods, because everything so far has been according to plan, and the doctors file out of the room while the nurse comes over to check his vitals. “Looking good,” she tells him with a smile. “We’ll send over Liz soon.”

Liz is Bucky’s new physical therapist, a small Hispanic woman with enough energy to put Tony to shame. “Exercises after amputation surgery are very important,” she tells him brightly as she guides him through various stretches and core strengthening exercises. “We don’t want the muscles and joints to shorten or stiffen in your residual limb.”

Bucky had only met Liz briefly once before while everything was being planned, but he finds her upbeat nature strangely reassuring. There is something about her that makes losing an arm seem not only manageable, but almost natural.

“I know you have a serum to help you heal,” she tells him as she shows him techniques to gently desensitize the skin on his shoulder. “But that’s no excuse to slack off in after-care. We want to be very kind to your scar and skin on your residual limb.”

His scar is actually a lot smaller now – thanks to Doctor Cho’s machine – but Liz gives him a mild soap to wash with twice a day, and a cream to rub into his scar. “This will help prevent chafing,” she says, before flashing him a half-smile. “Although I suppose your port won't be moving around too much.”

He chuckles at that and looks down at the metal port embedded in his shoulder. It’s smaller than the last one had been (because it’s better designed, according to a miffed Tony), and the seam where it connects to his shoulder is smoother. When he’d first woken up from surgery, the area had been a little swollen, but now it is mostly healed, and with the stretching and massaging exercises with Liz, he finds it hardly hurts at all.

“Well, at least you don’t mind doing the exercises,” Liz comments as she watches him roll his shoulder for the dozenth time that session. He can’t help laughing at that and he runs his hand over the metal junction.

“It just, feels strange, for it to move so easily,” he says, although he doesn’t know how to explain it. He keeps moving his shoulder, and it keeps just… moving. The only time it hurts is the natural pain that comes with stretching, and even that is lessening with Liz’s exercises. It’s just… strange.

Liz smiles at him before placing her hands on her hips in anticipation. “Well, today we’re going to be working with the right side of your body.”

He nods as Liz pulls up a rolling table and begins to set out little tasks for him to do. Learning to do things one handed is the other half of his therapy. He has very little experience trying to work with just one hand – with everyday things at least, he’s fairly certain he could handle a gun completely onehanded if he needed to. To add another layer of difficulty, his right hand isn’t his dominate hand, so Liz has him practice over and over with simple tasks like folding a towel, and doing his hair, and brushing his teeth.

“This way you can choose if you want to wear your prosthetic or not,” she says as she carefully shows him, _again_ , the trick for putting a ponytail in onehanded. Bucky – who’s muscles on his right arm are currently _very_ unhappy, and who’s hair is _very_ much down, and who is getting _far_ too sweaty for this sort of thing – thinks _very_ seriously about just cutting off all his hair.

(But then, he finally, _finally_ gets it, and Steve’s face when he shows it off to him during his visit makes it worth it.)

Liz works with him for several days, and he still has plenty he can improve on, but the final, most important thing for him to learn to do onehanded, is caring for and putting on his prosthetic.

Tony brings it in on the day when he’s finally ready to try it out, and the man is practically vibrating with excitement as he sets the case down next to him on the bed. Bucky can’t help admiring it as Tony opens the case and pulls it out. He’s seen it before, of course, but now, this time, it is _actually_ going to go on his body, and he takes it in with new appreciation.

It is less bulky than his Hydra one, because it doesn’t need to be able to punch through concrete. It's probably still stronger and more durable than any other prosthetic out there, but it’s not a _weapon_ anymore. It is also much lighter than it used to be – thanks in part to the slimmer design – and it’s a darker grey, almost blue this time, instead of the bright silver that it used to be.

And the star is different. Tony had asked him once if he’d wanted to keep that feature, and it had taken Bucky a little while to decide what he wanted to do with it. The red star is a symbol, a callsign for the Asset, and he doesn’t need that anymore… but the actual star itself isn’t all that bad.

So now he has a new star, a blue one. Because blue is _important_. 

“Alright,” Tony says as he holds the arm out with both hands. “I’ll show you how to attach it, and then you can see how it works for you.”

Tony helps him remove the protective liner over the end of his metal shoulder before showing him the matching connections in the port and the arm. “It’s pretty simple,” he says as he brings the arm close. “It should just slide in like this–”

The arms slides in with a seamless click, and Bucky blinks at how easily it had gone in, his eyes dropping down to look at the joint while Tony steps away, an intense look on his face as he scans Bucky. “How does it feel?” he asks.

His eyes still pinned to his arm, Bucky slowly flexes his fingers. He hadn’t realised how tense he’d been, until nothing else happens except for a wiggle of fingers, and his shoulders drop, no longer trying to hold up the remembered weight of his Hydra arm.

He stares, lifting his shoulder again, and it… doesn’t hurt.

He darts his eyes up to Tony and then back down to his arm, something bright and breathless rising up in his chest as he rolls his shoulder again. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt at all. He’d known that had been the goal, but he’d been expecting it anyways because he hadn’t known how it could _not_ hurt, but it doesn’t—

“Is it good?” Tony asks, practically bursting with tension, and Bucky realises that he hasn’t spoken yet.

A smile breaks over his face as he flexes his fingers again. He looks over at Tony and finds the giddy feeling in his chest bubbling out into a laugh.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he tells him, sucking in a breath as his body ping-pongs between emotions and his eyes grow damp. He laughs again, the sound more wet this time. “It doesn’t hurt at all.”

Tony smiles at him. “That’s good,” he says roughly, his eyes suspiciously shiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a lot happened in this chapter! I hope you enjoyed that Christmas scene. Bucky’s present for Bruce was probably different than you expected, but I thought it was really touching (and yes, Tony DID go over the price limit… but so did Bruce, and NO one will suspect him XD)
> 
> And then we got the arm operation. Bucky finally gets to have an arm that isn’t a weapon from Hydra, and is something that doesn’t hurt him. 
> 
> One chapter left!


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things change and end.

It takes a little work to get used to his new prosthetic, but he has the benefit of seventy years of practice, so he picks it up relatively quickly. This one _does_ have one significant change though.

“Here, I want to test something,” Tony tells him after he has successfully practiced putting on and taking off his new prosthetic a few times. He glances over and to see him standing and holding out the cloth cover for his port.

His brow furls and he reaches for it with his left hand. “What did you want to—?” He cuts off as his eyes widen and his hand closes over the silken fabric of the port cap. He _knows_ it’s silky because he can _feel the texture_ of it between his fingers.

He lets out a sort of strangled noise and glances up at Tony, the man himself also frozen at his reaction. “Okay, so maybe that was too sudden,” he starts off, worry tingeing his voice as his hands start to wave. “You remember, I said I was going to try, right? You can feel pressure in your hand, and so I wanted to see if I could improve on it, and I know it’s probably not _exactly_ like real life, but it’s just basically programed nerves so—"

Bucky can’t help laughing at Tony’s frantic explanation, the fingers of his left hand still rhythmically kneading the soft fabric of the port cover. It’s true that it isn’t _exactly_ like how his other hand would feel, and he finds the sensation of feeling things in his left hand mentally baffling but…

“This is amazing,” he whispers, looking down, his right hand coming up to feel the cover too, comparing the two sensations in his mind.

In front of him, Tony relaxes and lets out a breath. “Good,” he says, settling back into a more confident expression. “I mean, I thought it would work, but it’s hard to test out beforehand.”

Bucky puts down the cap and runs his hand over the bedspread beneath him, marveling at the feel of the fabric. Suddenly everything in the room has touch-potential, and he doubts he’ll be able to keep from running his hand over things for a while. He glances up, unable to keep a grin off his face.

“So, how does it work?” he asks, and Tony grins back at him, grabbing a chair so that he can sit down and explain to him the coffee-induced lab session that had sprung up _this_ particular bit of genius.

Once Liz is satisfied by his level of control over his new prosthetic, he is released from the hospital and left to explore the new feeling in his left hand. The rest of his arm isn’t very sensitive, but he doesn’t mind, because now his hand can _feel_ things. Things like glass windows, and plastic cups, and tree bark, and his hair, and paper and snow... (Steve takes him on a walk in the park, and someone lets him pet their dog, and he’s pretty sure he now knows what bliss feels like.)

Tony is immensely proud at the success of his invention, and they both spend several sessions down in the lab as he teaches him how to maintain it, and troubleshooting techniques for it.

“Hey, you’re really good at this,” the man comments, one time as Bucky works onehanded on the wiring of his arm (with _his_ screwdriver, from _his_ toolkit). “You could probably build one of these yourself someday.”

Bucky grins at that. He’s not so sure if he wants to make a career out of making prosthetics, but it’s becoming increasingly clear to him that he enjoys the process of tinkering with robots and mechanics. “I wonder if there’s a school for that,” he muses out loud, thinking back to how Natasha had mentioned he could go to school if he wanted to.

In front of him, Tony lights up.

There _are_ schools for that. Actually, there are _a lot_ of schools for that. After putting his arm back together, he and Tony spend the afternoon going through schools and programs and different options that he could choose.

“It really depends on what program you want to go into,” he explains as they scroll through various schools in the area. “If you’re looking for engineering, then I have some strings at MIT I could pull. But if your looking for more mechanics and automotives, then I would suggest Lincoln Tech.”

Bucky glances over the lab around him and looks back at Tony. “I think I’ll leave the engineering for you,” he says wryly. “I’m more comfortable with–” He waves a hand, trying to come up with the words. “I like repairing things. I like working on your cars.” He pauses and frowns for a second, looking over their search feed. “But I haven’t really gone to school… in a long time. I won’t really know what I’m doing.”

Tony scoffs and shakes his head, smiling slightly. “You won’t be any different than any other first year, let me tell you.” He shrugs. “Besides, you don’t have to go into a specific program. I was just thinking, I’m pretty sure you can sign up for individual classes at universities and stuff. I’m sure there’s a lot of information you missed while being with Hydra. It might be nice to take a few introductory classes in a bunch of stuff, just to _learn_.”

Bucky’s mouth opens and he nods slowly. He hadn’t thought of that, but given the advancements he’s seen around him in things like science and psychology, there is probably a lot about the world that his Hydra training hadn’t taught him. “What school should I go to for that?” he wonders, and Tony immediately starts searching again.

“Well, there’s a lot of factors,” he starts off. “If we want colleges in New York, then we should look into cost, and facilities, oh, and probably online options…” He trails off as he focuses, and Bucky finds himself sitting back, something calm settling in his stomach as he watches Tony search. It had taken him a while to get an idea for what he wanted to do with his life, but he finds himself actually feeling excited about this now.

And the fact that Tony is helping him with this, not only makes him feel more confident, but it also feels… right, in a way. It had been Tony who had first offered to let him work on his cars and help him figure out something that he had used to like, and now, months down the road, Tony is helping him with the fruits of that gesture.

“A Liberal Arts college might be a good idea,” he hears Tony mutter under his breath as he searches. “Smaller class sizes if you do on-campus classes, plus interdisciplinary requirements so you’ll have more freedom with class choices…”

In the end, Tony compiles for him a list of various colleges and universities (online and otherwise) to look at, and over the next several days, Bucky finds himself working through them, debating the pros and cons with Steve (and figuring out how he will actually get admission, he's not exactly sure if his records from the 1930s are still valid. He’ll figure it out though.)

He puts his quest on hold for a little bit though to go and visit Hannah and show her his arm (and he finds he doesn’t feel stressed about her looking at it now, because it’s _his_ ), and when he comes back, Tony calls an Avengers meeting, announcing that he needs to show them all something.

It has been a while since he’d been in the Avenger’s meeting room with everyone, and he sits next to Steve at the table, wondering what Tony could want to talk to them about. He doesn’t think it’s anything _bad_ – since the man seems more excited than anything else while he sets up the holo-projector at the front of the room – but the meeting doesn’t seem to be about Hydra, so Bucky isn’t sure what it could be about.

“Alright,” Tony says, turning to them and rubbing his hands together. “So, I know this is kind of out of the blue, but I’ve been working on something for a while, and I finally finished the basic plans, so I wanted to show you my idea.”

He clicks something on the panel in front of him and the Avengers’ Tower appears on the screen behind him. “Okay, so first of all,” he begins. “This is our current home base.” He waves his hand at it. “It’s nice, but I’ve been thinking it could use some improvements.” He glances over them. “For one thing, it’s a pretty big target for anyone who wants to attack us. It’s got plenty of safety features and defense systems, but it _is_ a Stark Industries building, so a lot of my employees work in the lower levels, so they’re more at risk with us up in the top here.”

“Also,” he continues. “There are lot of facilities that we could use that this tower simply doesn’t accommodate. We could use a bigger, better space, where it’s easier for us to work together in, and where we are not putting the city at risk.”

Bucky finds himself nodding slightly at his arguments, and next to him, Steve shifts. “What are you suggesting?” he asks.

Tony clicks on the panel and a new hologram shows up, this time showing multiple buildings in some kind of field by a river. “So,” he says. “SI actually owns some land upstate. Right now, it’s just a bunch of old warehouses, but I was thinking we could turn it into a compound for us. We’d have space for a better archery range, and a landing strip and hangar for the quinjets, a better training area for Sam’s jetpack and we wouldn’t be so spread out on different floors, it would be easier to all get together without having to take the elevator all the time.”

He shrugs and waves a hand. “We don’t have to decide right away, and I know it would be a big change. But I’ve finished the preliminary blueprints for it, and I think it would be a good and safer option than what we have now.”

There is a beat of silence before Sam speaks up. “Is there going to be a pool?”

His question sparks smiles in the rest of the group, and they fall into debating the pros and cons of moving. Bucky offers a word or two, but soon finds himself distracted by a different conversation – a completely silent one – going on between Natasha and Clint. He isn’t exactly sure what they are saying to each other, but they seem to be speaking mainly through the use of eyebrows and expectant looks, and eventually, Clint lets out a huff, calling the room’s attention to him.

“Sorry guys,” he says ruefully. “I need to make a phone call first, before I help you decide anything.” 

Natasha looks smug, and the other Avengers look confused as they watch Clint duck out of the room. As one, they all look over to Natasha for some sort of explanation, but she shakes her head. “He’ll explain if he wants to when he comes back,” she says. 

It takes about fifteen minutes before Clint returns, and by then the Avengers are not even pretending to debate the compound anymore, instead they all watch him as he comes back in, their curiosity practically visible in the air.

Clint and Natasha seem to be having another silent conversation as he sits down, and Natasha sits back, looking triumphant for reasons still unknown.

“So… you finished your phone call?” Bruce asks, and every eye turns to Clint.

Clint seems to be aware of their unspoken bafflement, and he huffs at them. “Yes I did,” he starts, before trailing off and shrugging one shoulder. “Right. So. I wasn’t sure when would be a good time to bring this up, but if we’re going to be moving bases, then I guess the time is now.”

Bucky glances over, and next to him, Steve is very carefully not-looking-lost-at-all, which basically means he has no idea what Clint is talking about, which is comforting, since nobody else but Natasha seems to know what is going on.

Clint grins at them, suddenly looking very amused at their confusion. “So,” he says. “Before we did anything, I had to make sure everything was cool with my wife. She says it won’t be a problem though, so we should be good.”

There is a beat of silence, and then another one, as the Avengers simply stare at him. Up at the front of the room, Tony looks to be repeating Clint’s sentence over and over in his head, his eyes moving as he mentally runs it backwards and forwards. Next to him, Bruce actually mouths the words as he checks over what he had just heard.

“You had to what?” Steve asks, and even he is unable to keep the note of shock out of his voice.

Clint’s grin widens. “Had to call my wife,” he says, leaning back in his chair and interlacing his hands behind his head. “You know, you can’t make family decisions without talking things over.”

“Family?” Bucky asks at the same time that Tony lets out a strangled noise.

“You’re _married?_ ” he asks, his voice high with disbelief. “You have a _wife?_ ”

“And two kids,” Clint shoots back, his eyes sparkling.

Tony stares at him opened mouthed, seemingly shocked into silence. On the other side of him, Sam is also silent, but he has a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking as his eyes glint, the man about two inches of self-control away from bursting out into laughter. Looking at him, Bucky doubts that he had known about this before now, but looking at Natasha, he is pretty sure she _has_.

Next to him, Steve suddenly slaps a hand on the table, his head jerking up to look at Clint, his mouth half-open. “That’s where you went,” he says, the words flying out of his mouth. “That’s where you went for Halloween.” His eyes glance between Clint and Natasha. “And that’s where you both went for–”

“The mysterious Christmas plans,” Bruce breathes, his eyes widening in realisation. “That’s where you guys keep going off to.”

“Wait, wait.” Tony waves his hands sporadically, calling the attention of the room back to him. “I’m still stuck on the fact that you have a wife! And two kids!” He glances between Natasha and Clint. “Since _when?_ You’ve had them this whole _time?!_ ”

Clint lets out a laugh at Tony’s reaction, before he shakes his head and sobers slightly, sitting up and putting his hands on the table. “I do,” he says. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about this before.” His eyes flick up and he glances around at them. “When I first started with SHIELD, I wasn’t married yet, but I told Fury that if I ever _did_ get married, then they had to be completely protected.” He shrugs. “When I married Laura, Fury helped keep it a secret. Pretty much nobody knows about them except Nat and Fury.”

“I guess that was probably a good thing,” Steve mutters under his breath. “With Hydra and all.”

Clint looks over to him and nods. “Yeah,” he says. “And when I first joined the Avengers, I didn’t know how permanent this was going to be, and I didn’t want to tell you without Laura’s permission… and then the Hydra thing happened and I didn’t want to accidentally put them at risk…” He sighs. “So that’s why I didn’t tell you until now. I’ve been thinking about doing it for a while, but it’s kind of hard to bring up in casual conversation, you know?”

Up at the front, Tony huffs and sits down, shaking his head. “Well.” He folds his arms. “If we’d _known,_ then you would’ve gotten more days off.”

Clint’s eyes widen and he barks out a surprised laugh at that, before Bruce leans forward, calling his attention. “How old are your kids?” he asks, a slight smile on his face. “What are their names?”

Clint smiles at the mention of his children (despite Tony’s quiet mutters of disbelief), and he leans forward to tell them all about Cooper and Lila, his eight-year-old son and six-year-old daughter.

“Well, now we have to visit them,” is Tony’s next announcement. “Where are you keeping this secret family of yours?”

Clint rolls his eyes and smiles. “I have a farm,” he says, to add more strangeness to his revelations. “It’s off the grid, but I’m sure we can figure out a visit.” He glances over at Natasha. “The kids will probably be excited to see Aunty Nat again anyways.”

Tony’s eyes widen and he grins suddenly, like his whole day has just been made. “Aunty Nat?”

Natasha huffs and rolls her eyes, and Sam finally loses his battle with himself and bursts out laughing, the sound sparking chuckles from the rest of them as they come to terms with the ridiculousness of their situation.

Bucky can’t help laughing too, his gaze on Clint as his eyes crease with amusement. He never would have been able to predict that Clint is married with kids, but he also can’t help thinking back to how relaxed and careful the man had been with him when he had been the Asset, and, in the end he finds that he isn’t all that surprised either.

oOo

The Avengers decide to go ahead with the plans for the new compound, but while they wait for the construction to begin, they insist on paying a visit to Clint’s farm and his newly revealed family. Clint coordinates with his wife, and a week or so after the initial reveal, the Avengers are packed onto a quinjet as Clint flies them out to his farm.

“It’s February, so nothing is growing,” he tells them. “But in the summer we have a giant garden. And we have a few fruit trees in the back. We make jam every year.”

It’s sort of strange to realise that Clint has this complete other side of himself that none of them had known about. It’s hard to imagine the same man who fights over ice cream with Sam as someone who has a house with two kids.

It seems a little surreal to the other Avengers too. “So…” Sam speaks up as the jet nears a snowy field. “How did you meet Laura?”

Clint grins as he navigates the controls. “Laura was a nurse for SHIELD,” he says. “My favourite one.”

Beside him, Natasha snorts. “I’m sure she enjoyed being seduced through black eyes and bloody noses. You guys are just lucky you managed not to alert the whole base to your relationship, what with the two of you making eyes at each other all the time.”

Clint laughs and eases the quinjet down to land in the clearing. “Alright, we’re here,” he announces as he unclips his seatbelt excitedly. “Everyone bundled up? It's just a short walk to the house.”

Bucky burrows himself deeper into his blue scarf and flexes his hands in his mittens, appreciating the feel of the wool on his metal hand. Next to him, Steve slips on his own gloves from Hannah and the rest of the Avengers make themselves busy zipping up coats and pulling on hats as Clint opens up the hangar door.

Thankfully, the cold is fairly mild today, and the Avengers make good time as they follow Clint down the snowy path to where his home must lie. They come over a ridge and Bucky catches sight of the place for the first time. He notices the barn first, an old wooden building with icicles hanging off of it, standing a few feet away from a white, two-story house.

No one is outside, but it’s obvious that children live here. Smaller footprints scatter out from the house, and sleds lie half-buried in the snow, a lone glove lying abandoned and half-frozen on the steps. Clint stoops down to grab it, before guiding them up the steps and opening the front door.

“We’re home!” he calls as the Avengers troop in after him, stomping their feet the best they can to avoid tracking in snow with them. At Clint’s announcement a cry goes up through the house, and soon the man is being bombarded by two excited children, both chattering a mile a minute as he ducks down to sweep them into hugs.

Laura comes down the stairs a second later and offers Clint a kiss before smiling over at the Avengers. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” she says, before giving a little laugh. “I… know all your names.”

The kids do too, but Clint introduces everyone anyway, and soon the Avengers are being ushered in. “Just hang your jackets wherever,” Laura tells them. “Heaven knows the kids always do.”

Lila and Cooper don’t protest the claim, they instead seem to be too distracted by the idea of guests to really notice much else. “Do you really have a shield?” Lila asks Steve, staring up at him with big eyes, her hair in two short braids by her head.

Steve smiles as he sits down with the rest of the Avengers in the living room and nods at her. “Yes I do,” he says. “I didn’t bring it today though.”

Cooper has other things on his mind. “Is that really your metal arm?” he asks Bucky, his eyes trained on the metal hand visible from under his long-sleeved shirt.

“Cooper.” Clint’s reprimanding tone comes from where he stands over by the fireplace, working on starting a small blaze. “Don’t be rude.”

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he says with a smile, rolling up his sleeve to just past his elbow and holding it out to Cooper. “I don’t mind. Did you know Tony made it for me?”

Lila too, looks intrigued by the arm and comes over to stand shyly by her brother. “Daddy says Tony can make anything,” she tells him simply, and Bucky finds his smile widening.

“Yes, he can,” he tells them, internally smirking as he watches Tony try not to blush from out of the corner of his eye.

Eventually Clint gets the fire started, and Laura brings out some refreshments as the adults sit around and chat in the living room, the topic mostly revolving around Clint and his family. “I still can’t believe you married this guy,” Tony announces to Laura, a snickerdoodle in hand. “You know he climbs through my air vents?”

Laura sends a Look over to her husband and Clint sputters. “Only like, twice!” he claims (although Bucky hadn’t been aware that he had done that at all.) “I was exploring the new base! It’s a good way to get to know someplace.”

“Ducts are not meant to be climbed it, Barton!” Tony bursts out, waving a hand, much to the amusement of Laura and the other Avengers.

They talk for a while longer, but eventually the children get tired of playing by themselves and they come back over. “Are you going to talk the _whole time?_ ” Cooper asks, looking over at his mom. “We want to play outside.”

Laura looks thoughtful for a moment. “Well…” she says slowly. “We do have a little time before supper. Why don’t you ask to see if anyone wants to go outside with you?”

Lila turns immediately to the Avenger closest to her, which happens to be Steve. “Do you wanna build a snowman with me?” she asks, her eyes wide and pleading. “Coop says the snow’s really good today.”

Bucky isn’t sure if any of the other Avengers catch it, but he can see Steve tense just slightly as he calculates what he wants more, disappointed children or a trip outside in the cold.

It’s instinct to call the question over to himself. “I’ll go with you,” he says, before flexing his arm a little. “I’ll be able to push the snow really high.”

That alone satisfies the kids completely, and Sam volunteers as well, leaving the two of them to get bundled up along with the children before they head outside again. It isn’t that cold out today, but he’s glad that he’d volunteered in Steve’s place. Out of the two of them, he is better at dealing with snow, since it’s more the cold that bothers him, rather than the weather.

Hannah’s gloves protect his hands though, and the scarf protects his face as Cooper and Lila guide him and Sam over to a field near their house. Through the wonders of child-logic, Cooper and Sam seem to instinctively peel off together to work on their own project, and Bucky is left to help Lila, the little girl barely coming up to his hip.

He blinks and realises suddenly that this is the first time he’s been around children since he had become fully himself. He’d interacted a few times with children in the library as the Asset, but now he has kids actively wanting to hang out with him as Bucky.

He thinks about how Steve had told him he’d doted on his sisters, and he smiles.

“Let’s make an archer snowman,” Lila tells him, and although he has no idea how that will be accomplished, he gets to work rolling the first snowball for their archer. Soon they have three reasonable sized snowballs stacked on top of each other (the extra strength in his arm certainly helps with that) and Lila sets them off to start looking for sticks that will work for arms and a bow for the figure.

“My daddy fights bad guys with a bow an’ arrow,” she informs him as they make their way over to the treeline in their search. “Do you fight bad guys with him?”

Bucky holds up a stick for Lila’s inspection and shakes his head. “Not right now,” he says. “I think I’m going to go to school instead.”

Lila accepts his stick but wrinkles her nose. “Mom teaches me an’ Coop for homeschool,” she tells him, giving him a look that makes it clear that she is questioning his sanity. “I donno why grown ups wanna go to school when they get older and they don’t haf’ to.”

Bucky can’t help laughing at that. “Sometimes it’s fun to learn,” he tells her, much to her skepticism. 

Eventually their gloves get wet, and all four of them troop back inside. By then supper is ready, and Bucky sits down to a family dinner, the likes of which he hasn’t had in years. He smiles as he sits in the warm atmosphere, and finds that he can imagine perfectly what it must have been like during family meals growing up. One look at Steve tells him he can feel it too.

“Well,” Tony announces afterwards. “You’re definitely invited next Christmas.” Lila and Cooper look absolutely delighted.

oOo

It takes several months for the new Avengers compound to be ready, but by summertime, the Avengers are ready to move in. Now that they know that Clint has a family, he spends more time at his farm than before, but he comes back regularly for their missions.

Bucky doesn’t go on their missions though. He remains involved of course, because he thinks he might go crazy if he were to be completely in the dark about what goes on with the Avenger missions, but he mostly stays on the sidelines, giving them intel on Hydra and helping plan for the missions beforehand.

(He also refamiliarizes himself with their past missions, because as the Asset he had not been in a place to fully appreciate the insanity of the _time travel_ that had tipped them off to the presence of Hydra.) He helps them train too, because he finds he enjoys that, but mostly, he works on other things.

He gets his drivers licence the same month they move into the new compound, and with it he can visit Hannah regularly (and also have a car that is _his_ , even if it is really an Avengers vehicle.) He also decides to enroll in several online classes, including an introduction to History, Psychology and English Literature.

He finds that he enjoys the online classes because he doesn’t have to go anywhere in person, and he works steadily through them, learning everything he had missed because of Hydra. (He is beginning to suspect that once he is finished his psychology class, he is going to have to ask Sam to help him find an actual person therapist, because the man _had_ said that talk-therapy is important, and the class seems to corroborate that.)

He doesn’t plan on getting an actual degree through the online classes though. Once he is comfortable, and once he thinks he has a solid base to work with, he thinks he might apply to the automotive program at Lincoln Tech that Tony had mentioned. From his research, the school seems supportive and informative, and if he finishes a program with them then he can actually work on all the Avengers’ cars and repair them after missions.

It still feels surreal sometimes – if he thinks about it too hard – all the things that he can do now. Only a year or so ago, he hadn’t even known he was a person, and now his life is completely different. He has friends, and a sister, and a _life_ that he is free to lead however he wants.

And the Asset might never have been able to have imagined that, but it suits Bucky just fine.

oOo

**Epilogue**

**July 17, 2015**

Bucky actually hadn't been there when it happened. The other Avengers (plus Rhodey, since he is working with them too now), had been gone as well, out of state on a day-long mission, while he had been down for his class at Lincoln Tech. They probably wouldn’t have even known about it if Sam hadn’t stayed behind to look after the base.

Sam enlightens them once they all get back together.

“You guys will not _believe_ what happened to me,” he starts, almost as soon as they get in through the door, his hands on his hips and a new rough looking gash on his elbow. “We had an intruder while you were gone.”

The other Avengers react with various exclamations of shock, and Bruce goes over to get the first aid kit while Sam fills them in on the details. “So, JARVIS alerted me to a sensor-trip, right?” he starts as he holds his arm out for the doctor and the Avengers settle around the common room dining table to listen to him. “So, I went to check it out, and at first I didn’t see anything.”

JARVIS helpfully pulls up a hologram of the footage captured by Sam’s suit as he talks, and the Avengers watch as it scans a seemingly empty roof, before focusing down on a man about the size of a thumb.

The Avengers all stare in confusion and listen as Sam confronts the intruder. _“I can see you!”_

Suddenly the figure grows to the size of an average man and clicks on his helmet, showing his face. _“Hi, I’m Scott.”_

Bucky blinks at the strange introduction and a movement out of the corner of his eye causes him to glance over at Steve, who is busy looking a mixture of confused and thoughtful, like he is trying to remember something from a long time ago.

 _“What are you doing here?”_ the hologram continues, and they learn that the man is apparently ‘Ant-Man’, and here after some sort of tech to ‘save the world’. Sam is obviously not impressed by his story, and he moves forward to apprehend the man, only to find him shrinking again.

 _“Sorry about this!”_ he shouts before zipping away, forcing Sam to pursue him with his jetpack.

 _“Breach is an adult male, with some sort of shrinking tech!”_ he reports to JARVIS, and Steve gasps, his eyes widening as he watches Sam try to fight the man who continuously switches between sizes and slips through his fingers.

“It’s the guy!” he exclaims, causing the Avengers to look over at him in confusion. He seems to be mostly focused on Tony though, his hand waving as he talks. “It’s the guy! Stewart Little! Lang! The one that was–”

Tony’s mouth drops open. “With the time travelers!”

Bucky darts his eyes back and forth between Steve and the projection, ‘Ant-Man’ now having somehow made it into Sam’s suit, causing it to malfunction and crash as the man mutters a string of ‘sorrys’ and apologies the entire time.

Tony doesn’t seem to mind the destruction of Sam’s suit though, his mind seemingly preoccupied by the identity of the intruder. “We have to find him!” he states, his mouth running a mile a minute as he thinks. “What did he even steal? Why did he– wait, so we have his first name now, and I’ll bet you anything that Lang is his last name, and we have JARVIS’ facial recognition, so–”

Bucky can’t help chuckling a little as the Avengers burst into excited chatter at the prospect of finding the third time-traveler that had come into their timeline. He has no idea how this Scott had met the Avengers in the other timeline, but he imagines that this will be a shock to him, considering how he had stolen some sort of signal device from them and they now suddenly already know who he is.

Judging from what he had seen in the video though, the man seems like he will fit in nicely with the group in one way or another— if he wants, and once they find him. He folds his arms and shakes his head bemusedly, flicking his eyes over the group. “The craziest stuff happens to you guys,” he mutters, a smile on his face.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we made it to the end! Thank you to everyone who read and commented on this fic, I hope you liked the ending. 
> 
> We finally met Clint’s family, and we see Bucky as he moves forward with his life. I thought he would appreciate the normalcy of learning in school for a while, and being able to pursue a passion of his. (Fun fact: in my research, Lincoln Tech has a history of teaching WW2 vets, so that’s why I chose it.)
> 
> NOW:  
> As you might know, there is a third part to this series. It is called “An Alternate Approach” and I have posted the first chapter if you would like to read and follow it.
> 
> It will be dealing with the events of ‘Civil War’ in this timeline (Steve’s POV). I know that is a painful topic for a lot of us, but I hope you trust me to address it properly!
> 
> I will not be doing any ‘Avengers: Age of Ultron’ in this series, since I don’t think it fits with the timeline (the scepter is not on Earth = no Ultron, Wanda, Pietro, or Vision = no movie).
> 
> Thank you again!

**Author's Note:**

> **Art for this story:**
> 
> [Lost and Found](https://www.deviantart.com/theunfortunatecat/art/Lost-and-Found-856732891) by the lovely [TheUnfortunateCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUnfortunateCat/pseuds/TheUnfortunateCat)  
> And  
> [Bucky](https://www.deviantart.com/theunfortunatecat/art/Bucky-859461509) again by [TheUnfortunateCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUnfortunateCat/pseuds/TheUnfortunateCat)
> 
> My tumblr:[16woodsequ](https://16woodsequ.tumblr.com/)  
> The Alternate Timeline [TVtropes](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/TheAlternateTimeline)


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